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PR 

5671 

T24H6 


No.  VI, 
FRENCH'S    STANDARD    DRAMA 


THE    IIOIEY-MOON: 


21    piaj}. 


IN  FIVE  ACTS. 


BY    JOHN    TOBIN. 


WITH    THE    STAGE    BUSINESS,  CAST    OF    CHARACTERS,    SOS 
TUMES,  RELATIVE    POSITIONS,   &c. 


NEW    YORK: 
SAMUEL      FRENCH, 

122  Nassau  Street,  (Up  Staiks.) 


J/p  LIBRARY 

'1 7/  rarv^ERsn Y  OF  California 

;,  /  //^  SANTA  BARBARA 


EDITORIAL  INTRODUCTION. 

Thekb  are  few  more  deligntful  comedies  in  the  English  language 
than  this.  The  language  is  fluent,  rich,  and  harmonious  ;  the  moml  tone 
is  good,  and  the  comic  incidents  are  exceedingly  effective.  John  Philip 
Kemble  gave  as  a  reason  for  not  accepting  this  play,  when  it  was  offered 
to  him  ;  that  it  was  too  much  of  a  plagiarism  from  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's 
"  Rule  a  Wife  and  Have  a  Wife,"  Shakspeare's  "  Taming  of  the  Shrew," 
and  other  old  comedies.  The  objection  is  not  a  vaUd  one  ;  as  Tobin  was 
less  indebted  to  these  plays  for  his  hints,  than  the  dramatists  named  were 
to  their  predecessors.  He  farther  deserves  the  credit  of  having  preserved 
all  the  spirit,  without  a  particle  of  the  grossness,  of  his  favourite 
models. 

John  Tobin,  who  wrote  "  The  Curfew,"  "  The  Honey-Moon,"  and  one 
or  two  other  dramatic  pieces,  was  born  at  Salisbury,  in  England,  January 
28th,  1770.  He  was  educated  for  the  law  ;  but  his  taste  for  dramatic 
writing  was  too  predominant  to  be  superseded  by  the  allurements  of  Black- 
stone  and  Coke.  "  Between  the  opposite  claims  on  his  attention  from  the 
law  and  the  muses,"  says  Mrs.  Inchbald, "  he  became  negligent  of  all 
healthful  exercise  ;  and  as  neither  his  person  nor  constitution  was  robust, 
progressive  indisposition  was  the  result  of  his  incessant  avocations,  and 
soon  arrived  at  such  an  alarming  crisis,  that,  by  the  advice  of  his  physi- 
cians, he  went  into  Cornwall,  and  remained  there  till  a  warmer  climate 
was  prescribed." 

In  1804,  the  invalid  embarked  at  Bristol  for  the  West  Indies.  The  ves- 
sel on  arriving  at  Cork  was  detained  for  some  days  ;  but,  on  the  7th  of 


iv  EDITOEIAL  INTRODUCTION. 

December,  it  sailed  from  that  port ;  on  whicli  day — witliout  any  apparent 
change  in  hh  disorder  to  indicate  the  approach  of  death, — he  expired. 

The  history  of  the  Honey-Moon  affords  a  remarkable  instance  of  the 
fact  that  actors  and  managers  are  often  the  poorest  judges  of  that  specie.s 
of  dramatic  writing,  which  is  destined  to  be  effective  in  the  representation. 
Poor  Tobin  found  it  impossible  to  persuade  either  actor  or  manager  to  take 
this  piece  under  his  protection,  and  produce  it  upon  the  stage  ;  and  the 
disappointed  author  died  without  knowing  that  he  had  written  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  and  successful  acting  comedies  in  the  English  language. 
The  Honey-Moon  was  not  represented  till  the  year  succeeding  his  death  ; 
and  then  its  success  was  almost  unparalleled. 

The  part  of  "  Juliana"  has  had  many  representatives  in  this  country, 
who  have  won  merited  celebrity  in  the  character.  Mrs.  Mowatt  is  one  of 
the  latest  of  these ;  and  we  doubt  if  any  of  her  predecessors  have  ever 
;)reyented  a  more  just,  spirited  and  pictureaque  embodiineat  of  the  author's 
soat-«ptioiL 


CAST    OF    CHARACTERS. 

Drwy  iMiie,  1824.  Park,  1846. 

Duke  Aranza, Mr.  EUiMon.  Mr.  G.  Vrndothqff, 

Jacques, "     Harlcy.  "     Jjafs. 

Lampedo, "     Oxhcrry.  "     Fislirr. 

Rolando "     Rmsell.  "     Di/ntt. 

Count  Montalban "    Barnard.  "     Bbrml. 

Baltliazar, "     Tknmvson.  "     Vache. 

Lopuz, "     Knight.  '■     Be  Walden. 

Cani])illo, "     Meredith.  "    Anderson. 

Servant  to   Balthazar "     Coveney.  "     Ga'lot. 

Juliana "     3Irs.  Edwin.  "     Mrs.  Mcu-nti. 

Volante, "     Miss  F.  Kelly.  "     Mrs.  Abbott. 

Zamora, "     Mrs.  Orger.  "     Miss  Crcckcr. 

Hostess, "     3Irs.  Harlowc.  "     Mrs.  Vernon. 

Servants  to  Duke,  Rustics,  &c. 


COSTUMES. 

DUKE. — Wedding  dress. — Second  dress :  Peasant's  grey  or  drab  tnnick 
drab  slouch  hat,  blue  worsted  pantaloons,  and  russet  I)Outs.  Third  dress  : 
splendid  satin  ducal  vest,  rich  velvet  robe  trimmed  with  green  and  silver, 
white  silk  pantaloons,  white  shoes,  &c. 

COUNT — A  fawn-coloured  jacket  and  tabs,  with  green  and  silver  trim- 
ming, pantaloons  of  the  same,  hat  and  feathers,  and  rasset  boots,  gaunt- 
lets, sword  and  belt.    Second  dress  :  Monk's  gown. 

ROLANDO — Messina  uniform  (or  Pierre's  dress,)  russet  boots  and  spurs, 
gauntlets,  cap  and  feathers,  sword  and  belt. 

BALTHAZAR Drab  jackets  and  trunks,  trimmed  with  green  ribbon  bows 

and  tin  tags,  grey  wig. 

LAMPEDO — Black  close  shape,  red  stockings,  black  shoes,  small  three- 
cornered  hat,  and  cane. 

CAMPILLO. — Drab-coloured  jerkin  and  trunks,  blue  stockings  and  russet 
.shoes. 

LOPEZ — A  peasant  jacket  and  trunks,  light  blue  stockings,  russet  shoes, 
round  white  hat,  and  long  light  hair. 

JA(}UES. — Handsome  velvet  shape,  large  cloak,  red  stockings  with  silver 
clocks,  white  shoes,  sword,  and  red  curled  wig. 

PEDRO — Jerkin  and  trunks,  blue  stockings,  russet  shoes. 

JULIANA.— Wedding  dress.  Rich  white  satin  and  silver,  large  drooping 
white  feathers,  and  jewels.  Second  dress  :  light  blue,  or  siate-colourcd 
liody.  and  i)elticoat  ])lainly  trimmed  with  black  l)inding  or  silk,  blue 
.'rtockings,  and  black  shoes.    Third  dress  :  Neat  white  muslin. 

VOLANTE. — Handsome  satin  dress,  with  ornaments,  and  feathers. 

ZAJ.IORA. — Page's  tunick,  and  pantaloons,  russet  ankle  boots,  and  cap. 
Second  d^css  :  handsome  satin  and  silver  dress,  and  large  veil. 

HOSTESS.— Black  dress,  with  red  points,  point  lace  apron,  and  cap. 

N.  B,    Passages  marked  xvith  Inverted  Commas,  are  usually  omitted  in  tin 
representation. 


THE  HONEYMOOK 


ACT     I . 

Scene  I. — A  Street  in  Madrid. 

Enter  Duke  and  Montalbax.  i..  foUoived  hy  a  Servant.     He 
crosses  behind  to  r. 

D^iike.     ( Speaking  to  Servant.)     This  letter  yoii  will  give 
my  steward  ; — this 
To  iny  old  tenant,  Lopez.     Use  despatch,  sir  ; 
Your  negligence  may  ruin  an  affair 
Which  1  have  much  at  heart. — (Exit  Sei-vont,  kJ — Why. 

how  now,  Count  !  , 

You  look  but  dull  upon  my  wedding-day, 
Nor  show  the  least  reflection  of  that  joy 
Which  breaks  from  me,  and  should  light  up  my  friend. 

Count.     (-L.)     If  I  could  set  my  features  to  my  tongue, 
I'd  give  your  highness  joy.     Still,  as  a  friend, 
Whose  expectation  lags  behind  his  hopes, 
I  wish  ygu  happy. 

Duke.     You  shall  see  me  so, — 
Is  not  the  lady  I  have  chosen  fair? 

Count.     Nay,  she  is  beautiful. 

Duke.     Of  a  right  age  ? 

Count.     In  the  fresh  prime  of  youth,  and  bloom  of  wo- 
manhood. 

Duke.     A  well-proportion'd  form,  and  noble  presence  ? 

Count.     True. 

Duke.     Then  her  wit  ?     Her  wit  is  admirable  ! 

Count.     There  is  a  passing  shrillness  in  her  voice. 

Dvice.     Has  she  nd;  wit  ? 


8  '  THE    HOXT^YMOON.  [AcT  1 

Count.     A  shai-p-edged  tongue,  I  own  ; 
But  uses  it  as  hravoes  do  their  swords — 
Not  for  defence,  but  mischief.     Then,  her  gentleness  ! 
You  had  almost  forgot  to  speak  of  that. 

Duke.  Ay,  there  you  touch   me  !     Yet   though   she   be 
prouder 
Than  the  vex'd  ocean  at  its  topmost  height 
And  every  breeze  will  chafe  her  to  a  storm, 
1  love  her  still  the  better.     Some  prefer 
Smoothly  o'er  an  unwriukled  sea  to  glide  ; 
Others  to  ride  the  cloud-aspiring  waves. 
And  hear,  amid  the  rending  tackles'  roar, 
I'lie  spirit  of  an  equinoctial  gale. 
What  though  a  patient  and  enduring  lover — 
Like  a  tame  spaniel,  that,  with  crouching  eye, 
Meets  buffets  and  caresses — I  have  ta'eu, 
With  humble  thanks,  her  kindness  and  her  scorn  : 
Yet,  when  I  am  her  husband,  she  shall  feel 
I  was  not  born  to  be  a  woman's  slave  I  \_Crosses,  v 

Can  you  be  secret  ? 

Coiiiil.  You  have  found  me  so 
In  matters  of  some  moment. 

DultC.  Listen,  then  : 
"  I  have  prepared  a  penance  for  her  pride, 
"To  which  a  cell  and  sackcloth,  and  and  the  toils 
"  Of  a  oarefooted  pilgrimage,  were  pastime." — 
As  yet  she  knows  me,  as  1  truly  am, 
The  Duke  Aranza  :  in  which  character 
I  have  fed  high  her  proud  and  soaring  fancy 
With  the  description  of  my  states  and  fortunes, 
My  princely  mansions,  my  delicious  gardens, 
My  carriages,  my  servants,  and  my  pomp. 
Now  mark  the  contrast. — In  the  very  height 
A  lid  fullest  pride  of  her  ambitious  hopes, 
1  take  her  to  a  miserable  hut 
(■  All  things  are  well  digested  for  the  purpose  \) 
Where,  throwing  off  the  title  of  a  duke, 
i  will  appear  to  her  a  low-born  peasant. 
There,  with  coarse  raiment,  household  drudgery, 
Laborious  exercise,  and  cooling  viands, 
1  will  so  lower  her  distempered  blood, 
And  tame  the  devil  in  her,  that,  before 


Scene  I.]  the  honeymoon. 

We  have  barnt  out  our  happy  honeymoon, 

She,  like  a  well-train'd  hawk,  shall,  at  my  wliistle, 

Quit  her  high  fliglits,  and  perch  upon  my  finger, 

To  wait  my  bidding.  [Crosses 

Count.  Most  excellent  !     A  plot  of  rare  invention  : 

Duke.  "  When,  with  a  bold  hand,  I  have  weeded  out 
"  The  rank  growth  of  her  pride,^he'll  be  a  garden 
"  Lovely  in  blossom,  rich  in  fruit ;  till  then, 
"  An  unpruued  wilderness." — But  to  your  business. 
How  thrives  your  suit  with  her  fair  sister.  Count  ? 

Count.  The  best  advancement  I  can  boast  of  in  it 
Is,  that  it  goes  not  backward.     She's  a  riddle, 
^Vhich  he  that  solved  the  sphinx's  would  die  guessing. 
If  I  but  mention  love,  she  starts  away, 
And  wards  the  subject  off  with  so  much  skill, 
That  whether  she  be  hurt  or  tickled  most, 
Iler  looks  leave  doubtful.     Yet  I  fondly  think 
She  keeps  me  (as  the  plover  from  her  nest 
Fearful  misleads  the  traveller)  from  the  point 
"Where  live  her  warmest  wishes,  that  are  breathed 
For  me  in  secret. 

Duke.  You've  her  father's  voice  ? 

Count.  Yes  :  and  we  have  concerted,  that  this  eveningj 
Instead  of  Friar  Dominick,  her  confessor, 
Who  from  his  pious  office  is  disabled 
By  sudden  sickness,  I  should  visit  her ; 
And,  as  her  mind's  physician,  feel  the  pulse 
Of  her  affection,  ,«^ 

Duke.  May  you  quickly  find  ''" 

lier  love  to  you  the  worst  of  her  offences  t 
For  then  her  absolution  will  be  certain. 
Farewell  !     I  see  Kolando. 
He  is  a  common  railer  against  women  ; 
And,  on  my  wedding-day,  I  will  hear  none 
Blaspheme  the  seJl^  Besides,  as  once  he  failed 
In  the  same  suit  that  I  have  thriven  in, 
'Twill  look  like  triumph.     'Tis  a  grievous  pity 
He  follows  them  -with  such  a  settled  spleen. 
For  he  has  noble  c(ualities. 

Count.  Most  rare  ones — 
A  happy  wit,  and  independent  spiiit, 

Duke.  And  he  is  brave,  too. 


10  THE    HONEYMOON.  [AcT  I. 

Cownt    Of  as  tried  a  courage 
As  ever  walk'd  up  to  the  roaring  throats 
Of  a  deep-ranged  artillery  ;  and  planted, 
'Midst  fire  and  smoke,  upon  an  enemy's  wall, 
The  standard  of  his  country. 

Duke.  Farewell,  Count 

Count.  Success  attend  your  schemes  1 

Duke.  Fortune  crown  yours  I  \_Exit,  i. 

Enter  Rolando,  l. 

Count.  Siguor  Rolando,  you  seem  melancholy. 

Rol.  As  an  old  cat  in  the  mumps.     I  met  three  women— 
1  marvel  much  they  suffer  them  to  walk 
Loose  in  the  streets,  whilst  other  untamed  monsters. 
Are  kept  in  cages — three  loud  talking  women  1 
Tliey  were  discoursing  of  the  newest  fashions, 
And  their  tongues  went  like — I  have  since  been  thinking 
What  most  that  active  member  of  a  woman 
Of  mortal  things  resembles. 

Count.  Have  you  found  it  ? 

Rol.    Umph  !      Not  exactly — something  like  a  smoie- 
jack  ; 
For  it  goes  ever  without  winding  up  : 
But  that  wears  out  in  time — there  fails  the  simile. 
Next  I  bethought  me  of  a  water-mill  ; 
But  that  stands  still  on  Sundays  ; 
AVoman's  tongue  needs  no  reviving  sabbath. 
And,  besides,  * 

A  mill,  to  give  it  motion,  waits  for  grist  ; 
Now,  whether  she  has  aught  to  sajF  or  no, 
A  woman's  tongue  will  go  for  exercise. 
h\  short,  I  came  to  this  conclusion  : 
Most  earthly  things  have  their  similitudes, 
But  woman's  tongue  is  yet  incomparable. 
Was't  not  the  duke  that  lef||you  ? 

Count.  'Twas. 

llol.  He  saw  me, 
And  hurried  off  ! 

Count.  Ay  !     'Twas  most  wise  in  him, 
To  shun  the  bitter  flowing  of  your  gall. — 
You  know  he's  on  the  brink  of  matrimony. 

Rol.  Why  now,  :n  reason,  what  can  he  expect, 


ScF.ND   I.]  TIIIC    HONEYMOON.  11 

To  marry  such  a  ^YOlnan  ? 

A  thing  so  closely  pack'd  with  her  own  pride, 

tShe  has  no  room  for  any  thouglit  of  him. 

Why,  she  ne'er  threw  a  word  of  kindness  at  him, 

But  wlicn  she  quarrell'd  with  her  monkey. — Then, 

As  he  with  nightly  minstrelsy  doled  out 

A  lying  ballad  to  her  })eerless  beauty, 

Unto  liis  whining  lute,  and,  at  each  turn, 

8igird  like  a  pavionr,  the  kind  lady,  sir, 

Would  lift  the  casement  up — to  laugh  at  him, 

And  vanish  like  a  shooting  star  ;  whilst  he, 

Ijike  an  astronomer  in  an  eclipse, 

Stood  gazing  on  the  spot  whence  she  departed : 

Then,  stealing  home,  went  supperless  to  bed, 

And  fed  all  night  upon  her  apparition, — 

Now,  rather  tliau  espouse  a  thing  like  this, 

I'd  wed  a  bear  that  never  learnt  to  dance. 

Though  her  first  hug  were  mortal. 

Count.  Peace,  Rolando  1 
You  rail  at  women  as  priests  cry  down  pleasure  ; 
Who,  for  the  penance  which  they  do  their  toi:gues, 
Give  ample  license  to  their  appetites. 
"  Come,  come,  however  you  may  mask  your  nature, 
"  I  know  the  secret  pulses  of  your  heart 
"  Beat  towards  them  still."     A  woman  hater  !     Pshaw  I 
A  young  and  handsome  fellow,  and  a  brave  one — 

Rol.  Go  on. 

Count.  Had  I  a  sister,  mother,  nay,  grandaui, 
\\\  no  more  trust  her  in  a  corner  with  thee. 
Than  cream  within  the  whiskers  of  a  cat. 

Rol.  Right !     I  should  beat  her.     You  are  very  right, 
I  liave  a  sneaking  kindness  for  the  sex  ; 
A  nd  could  I  meet  a  reasonable  woman. 
Fair  witiiont  vanity,  rich  without  pride, 
Discreet  though  witty,  Icarn'd,  yet  very  humble  ; 
Tliat  has  no  ear  for  flattery,  no  tongue 
l'\)r  scaudi.l  ;  one  who  never  reads  romances  ; 
\Vho  loves  to  listen  better  than  to  talk, 
And  rather  than  be  gadding  would  sit  quiet ; 
I'd  marry,  certainly.     You  shall  find  two  such, 
And  we'll  both  wed  together. 

Count.  You  are  merry ,^ 


13  THE    HONEYMOON.  _  [AcT  I 

Where  shall  we  dine  together  ? 

Rol.  Not  to-day. 

Comit.  Nay,  I  insist. 

Kol.  Where  shall  I  meet  you,  then  ? 

Count.  Here  at  tlie  Mermaid. 

lioL  I  don't  like  the  sign  ; 
A  mermaid  is  half  woman. 

Count.  Pshaw,  Rolando ! 
You  strain  this  humour  beyond  sense  or  measure. 

Rol.  Well,  on  condition  that  we're  very  private, 
And  that  we  drink  no  toast  that's  feminine, 
I'll  waste  some  time  with  you. 

Count.  Agreed. 

Enter  Zamora,  l.  (disguised  as  Eugenio.) 

Rol.  Go  on,  then  ; 
I  will  but  give  directions  to  my  page, 
And  follow  you. 

Count.  A  pretty  smooth-faced  boy  ! 

Rol.  Tlie  lad  is  handsome  ;  and  for  one  so  young — 
Save  that  his  heart  would  flutter  at  a  drum, 
And  he  would  rather  eat  his  sword  than  draw  it — 
He  is  the  noblest  youth  in  Christendom. 
Wlien  before  Tunis, 

I  got  well  scratch'd  for  leaping  on  the  walls 
Too  nimbly,  tliat  same  boy  attended  me. 
'Tvvould  bring  an  honest  tear  into  thine  eye, 
To  tell  thee  how,  for  ten  days,  without  sleep. 
And  almost  nourislnnent,  he  waited  on  me  ; 
Cheer'd  the  dull  time,  by  reading  merry  tales  ; 
And  when  my  festering  body  smarted  most, 
Sweeter  tlian  a  fond  mother's  lullaby 
Over  her  peevish  child,  he  sung  to  me. 
That  the  soft  cadence  of  his  dying  tones 
Proj>i)'d  like  an  oily  balsam  on  my  wounds. 
And  breathed  an  healing  influence  throughout  me. — 
lint  this  is  womanish  ! — Order  our  dinner. 
And  I'll  be  with  yon  presently. 

Count.  I  will  not  fail.  [E:dt  Count,  r 

(Zamora  comes  forward,  L.) 

Tlol   The  wars  are  ended,  boy. 

Zam.  I'm  glad  of  that,  sir. 

Rol.  You  slioiild  Ije  sorry  if  you  love  your  master. — 


SCKVE    1,]  THE  HONEYMOON,  13 

Zam.     Tlion  I  am  very  sorry. 

Rol.     We  must  part,  boy  I 

^am.     Part  ? 

Ilol.     I  am  serious. 

Zam.     Nay,  you  cannot  mean  it. 
Have  I  been  idle,  sir,  or  negligent  ? 
Saucy  I'm  sure  I  have  not. — If  aught  else, 
It  is  my  first  fault :  chide  rae  gently  for  it- 
Nay,  heavily  ; — but  do  not  say,  we  part  ! 

livl.     I'm  a  disbanded  soldier,  without  pays 
Fit  only  now,  with  rusty  swords  and  henilets. 
To  hang  up  in  the  armoury,  till  the  wars 
New  burnisli  me  again  ;  so  poor,  indeed, 
I  can  but  leauly  cater  for  myself, 
Much  less  provide  for  thee. 

Zam.     Let  not  that 
Divides  us,  sir  ;  the  thought  of  how  I  fared 
Never  yet  troubled  me,  and  shall  not  now, 
"  Indeed,  I  never  followed  you  for  hire, 
"  But  for  the  simple  and  the  pure  delight 
"  Of  serving  such  a  master." — If  we  must  part^ 
L'^t  me  wear  out  my  service  by  degrees  ; 
To-day  omit  some  sweet  and  sacred  duty, 
Some  dearer  one  to-morrow  ;  slowly  thus 
My  nature  may  be  wean'd  from  her  delight  : 
But  suddenly  to  quit  you,  sir  1 — I  cannot  1— 
I  sliould  go  broken-hearted. 

Rot.     Pshaw,  those  tears  1 
Well,  well,  we'll  talk  of  this  some  other  day. 
I  dine  with  Count  Montalban  at  the  Mermaid; 
ill  the  mean  time,  go  and  amuse  yourself 
With  what  is  wortliiest  note  in  this  famed  city. — 
l^ut  hark,  Eugenio  !     Tis  a  wicked  place  ; 
You'll  meet  (for  they  are  weeds  of  every  soil^ 
Abundance  here  of — women  ; — keep  aloof  ! 
For  they  are  like  the  smooth,  but  brittle,  ice, 
Tiiat  tempts  th'  unpractised  urcliin  to  his  ruin. 
They  are  like  comets,  to  be  wonder'd  at, 
iiut  not  approacii'd  ; 
(;io  not  within  their  reach  ! —  {Exit,  a 

Z'ifn.     Doul)t  me  not,  sir. — 
VV'h.it  u  hard  late  is  mine  ! — To  follow  thus 


14  THE    HONEYMOON.  [AcT  I. 

With  love  a  geatlemau  that  scorus  my  seX; 

Aud  swears  no  great  or  noble  quality 

Ever  yet  lived  in  woman  ! — When  I  read  to  him 

The  story  of  Lucretia,  o'-  of  Portia, 

Or  other  glorious  dame,  or  some  rare  virgin. 

Who,  cross'd  in  love,  has  died — 'mid  peals  of  laughter. 

He  praises  the  invention  of  the  writer  : 

Or  growing  angry,  bids  me  shut  the  book, 

Xor  with  such  dull  lies  wear  his  patience  out. — 

What  opposition  has  a  maid  like  me 

To  turn  the  headstrong  current  of  his  spleen  I — 

For  though  he  sets  off  with  a  lavish  tongue 

My  humble  merits,  thinking  me  a  boy. 

Yet,  should  I  stand  before  his  jaundiced  sight 

A  woman,  all  that  now  is  fair  in  me 

Might  turn  to  ugliness  ;  all  that  is  good 

Appear  the  smooth  gloss  of  hypocrisy  ; — 

Yet  I  must  venture  the  discovery. 

Though  'tis  a  fearful  hazard.     This  perplexity 

Of  hopes  and  fears  makes  up  too  sad  a  life  ; 

I  will,  or  lose  him  quite,  or  be  his  wife.  [JExtt,  l 

Scene  II. — A  Room  in  Balthazars  House 

Enter  Balthazar  antid  Yolante,  l. 

Bal.     Not  yet  apparell'd  ? 

Vol.     'Tis  her  wedding  day,  sir  : 
On  such  occasions  women  claim  some  grace. 

Bal.     How  bears  she 
The  coming  of  her  greatness  ? 

Vol.     Bravely,  sir. 
Instead  of  the  high  honors  that  await  her, 
J  think  that,  were  she  now  to  be  enthroned, 
Siie  would  become  her  coronation  : 
For,  when  she  has  adjusted  some  stray  lock. 
Or  fix'd,  at  last,  some  sparkling  ornament, 
She  views  her  beauty  with  collected  pride, 
Musters  her  whole  soul  iu  her  eyes,  aud  says,       {^Crosses,  b 
"  Iji>ok  I  not  like  an  empress?" — but  she  comes. — 

I'Jiifc.r  Ji'MANA  lit  her  •verlding  dress,  h. 

Ji'l.     VVtill,  sir,  what  think  you  ?     Do  I  to  the  life 


Scene  II.]  the  honeymooit  15 

Appear  a  duchess,  or  will  people  say, 

She  does  but  poorly  play  a  part  which  nature 

Never  design'd  her  for  ? — But,  where's  the  duke  ? 

Bnl.     Not  come  yet. 

Jul.     How  ?  not  come  ? — the  duke  not  come  ! 

Vol.     Patience,  sweet  sister  ;  oft  without  a  murmur 
It  lias  been  his  delight  to  wait  for  you. 

Jul.     It  was  his  duty. — Mau  was  born  to  wait 
On  woman,  and  attend  her  sovereign  pleasure  I 
This  tardiness  upon  his  wedding-day 
Is  l>ut  a  sorry  sample  of  obedience. 

Bal.     Obedience,  girl  1 

Jul.     Ay,  sir,  obedience  ! 

Vol.     Why,  what  a  wire-drawn  puppet  you  will  make 
The  man  you  marry  ! — I  suppose,  ere  long, 
You'll  choose  how  often  he  shall  walk  abroad 
For  recreation  ;  fix  his  diet  for  him  ; 
Bespeak  his  clothes,  and  say  on  what  occasions 
He  may  put  on  his  finest  suit — 

Jvl.     Proceed.  [Crosses,  o 

Vol.     Keep  all  the  keys,  and,  when  he  bids  his  friends, 
]\Iete  out  a  modicum  of  wiue  to  each. 
Had  you  not  better  put  him  in  a  livery 
At  once,  and  let  him  stand  behind  your  chair  ? 
Why,  I  would  rather  wed  a  man  of  dough, 
Such  as  some  school-girl,  when  the  pie  is  made, 
To  amuse  her  childish  fancy,  kneads  at  hazard 
Out  of  the  remnant  paste — a  paper  man, 
(^ut  by  a  baby.     Heavens  preserve  me  ever 
From  that  dull  blessing — an  obedient  husband  1 

Jul.     And  make  you  an  obedient  wife  ! — A  thing 
For  lordly  man  to  vent  his  humors  on  ; 
A  dull  domestic  drudge  to  be  abused. 
"  If  yoii  think  so,  my  dear  :"  and,  "  As  you  please  :" 
And,  ''  You  know  best ;" — even  when  he  nothing  knows 
I  have  no  patience — that  a  free-born  woman 
Should  sink  the  high  tone  of  her  noble  nature 
Down  to  a  slavish  whisper,  for  that  compound 
Of  frail  mortality  they  call  a  man, 
And  give  her  charter  up  to  niaki;  a  tyrant  ! 

Bal.     You  talk  it  most  heroically. — Prido 
May  l^e  a  proper  bait  to  catch  a  lover, 


16  THE   HONEYMOON.  [AcT  I. 

But,  trust  me,  daughter,  it  will  not  hold  a  husband. 

Jul.     Leave  that  to  me — and  what  should  I  have  caught, 
If  I  had  fish'd  with  your  humility  ? — 
Some  pert  apprentice,  or  rich  citizen, 
Who  would  have  bought  me  ;  some  poor  gentleman, 
AVhose  high  patrician  blood  would  have  descended 
To  wed  a  painter's  daughter  and — her  ducats — 
I  felt  my  value,  and  still  kept  aloof  ; 
Nor  stopp'd  my  eye  till  I  had  met  the  man, 
Pick'd  from  all  Spain,  to  be  my  husband,  girl  ; 
And  him  I  have  so  managed,  that  he  feels 
I  have  conferred  an  honour  on  his  house, 
By  coyly  condescending  to  be  his.  {^Crosses,  l. 

Bal.     He  comes.  \_KiiocJdng,  r. 

Vol.     Smooth  your  brow,  sister. 

Jul.     For  a  man  I 
He  must  be  one  not  made  of  mortal  clay,  then. 

K.  Enter  Four  Attendants  \st,  the  Duke  2nd  ;  the 
Attendants  remain  on  r. 

Oh  !  you  are  come,  sir  ?     I  have  waited  for  you  ! — 
Is  this  your  gallantry  ?  at  such  a  time,  too  ? 

Dule.     I  do  entreat  your  pardon  ; — if  you  knew 
The  pressing  cause — 

Vol.     Let  me  entreat  for  hira. 

Bal.     Come,  girl,  be  kind. 

Jul.     Well,  sir,  you  are  forgiven. 

Dicke.     You  are  all  goodness  ;  let  me  on  this  hand — 

\_Crosses  to  }i£i\  taking  her  hand,  which  she  withdraivs. 

Jul.     Not  yet,  sir  ; — 'tis  a  virgin  hand  as  yet, 
And  my  own  pro})erty  : — forbear  awhile, 
And,  with  this  humble  person,  'twill  be  yours. 

Dulx,     Exquisite  modesty  ! — Come,  let  us  ou  ! 
All  things  are  waiting  for  the  ceremony  ; 
And,  till  you  grace  it.  Hymen's  wasting  torch 
Burns  dim  and  sickly. — Come,  my  Juliana. 

{_Di(ke.  offers  Jioliana  his  haml,  she  refuses  and  crosses  r. 
Balthazar  howing  to  the  Duke  passes  him,  and  leads 
Juliana  off;  Dalce  goes  next,  Attendants  follow. 
Lively  Music.     Exevnt,  r. 


Scene  I.]  the  honeymoon.  17 

ACT    II. 

Scene  I. — A  Cottage. 

Tahe  a/n%  two  chairs.     A  door  on  at  1st  e.  h 

Enter  tke  Duke,  leading  in  Jdliana,  l.  d. 

Duke.     IB  rings  a  chair  forward,  c.  and  sits  down.]      You 
are  welcome  home. 

Jul.     [Crosses  R.]   Home  !     You  are  merry  ;  this  retired 
spot 
Would  be  a  palace  for  au  owl  I 

Du/ie,     'Ti.s  ours. — 

Jid.     Ay,  for  the  time  we  stay  in  it. 

Duke.     By  Heaven, 
"J'liis  is  the  noble  inanslou  that  I  spoke  of  I 

Jul.     This  ! — You  are  not  in  earnest,  though  you  bear  it 
With  such  a  sober  brow. — Come,  come,  you  jest. 

Duke.     Indeed  I  jest  not  ;  were  it  ours  in  jest, 
We  siiould  have  none,  wife. 

Jill.     Are  you  serious,  sir  ? 

Duke.     I  swear,  as  I'm  your  husband,  and  no  duke. 

Jul.     No  duke  ? 

Du/ce.     But  of  my  own  creation,  lady. 

Jtd.     Am  I  betrayed — Nay.  do  not  play  the  fool  1 
It  i,s  too  keen  a  joke. 

Duke.     You'll  find  it  true. 

Jul.     You  are  no  duke,  then  ? 

Duke.     None. 

Jul.     Have  I  been  cozened  ?  [Aside. 

And  have  you  no  estate,  sir  ? 
No  palaces,  nor  houses  ? 

Uuke.     None  but  this  : — 
.V  small  snug  dwelling,  and  in  good  repair. 

Jul.     Nor  money,  nor  efl'ects  ? 

Duke.     None  that  I  know  of. 

Jul.     And  the  attendants  who  have  waited  on  us — 

Duke.     They  were  my  friends  ;     who,  having  done  mj 
business, 
Are  gone  about  their  owu 


18  '  THE   HONEYMOON.  [Acr  If. 

Jd.     Why,  then,  'tis  clear. —  [Aslrh. 

That  I  was  ever  born  ! — What  are  you,  sir  ? 

Duke.     (Rises.)     I  am  aa  honest  man — that  may  conteni 
you. 
Young,  nor  ill-favour'd — should  not  that  content  you  ? 
I  am  your  husband,  and  that  must  content  you. 

Jul.     I  will  go  home  !  \_Going,  \,. 

Dtdce.     You  are  at  home,  already.  [  Staying  /kt. 

Jul.     I'll  not  endure  it  1 — But  remember  this — 
Duke,  or  no  duke,  I'll  be  a  duchess,  sir  1  [Crosses,  l. 

Duke.     A  duchess  !     Y^ou  shall  be  a  queeu, — to  all 
Who,  by  the  courtesy,  will  call  you  so 

J^d.     And  I  will  have  attendance  1 

Duke.     So  you  shall. 
When  you  have  learnt  to  wait  upon  yourself. 

Jul.     To  wait  upon  myself  !     Must  I  bear  this  ? 
I  could  tear  out  my  eyes,  that  bade  you  woo  me. 
And  bite  my  tongue  iu  two,  for  saying  yes  !         (Crosses,  r. 

Duke.     And  if  you  should,  'twould  grow  again. — 
I  think,  to  be  an  honest  yeoman's  wife 
(^For  such,  my  would-be  duchess,  you  will  find  me,) 
You  were  cut  out  b^'  nature. 

Jul.     You  will  find,  then. 
That  education,  sir,  lias  spoilt  me  for  it.— 
Why  !  do  you  think  I'll  work  ? 

Duke.     I  think  'twill  happen,  wife. 

Jul.     What  !     Hub  and  scrub 
Your  noble  palace  clean  ? 

Duke.     Those  tajjer  fingers 
Will  do  it  diiintily. 

Jul.     And  dress  your  victuals 
(^If  there  I>e  any)  '{ — Oh  !     I  could  go  mad  !       (Crosses,  i, 

Duke.     And  mend  niv  hose,  and  darn  my  nightca])s  neai/ 
ly  :  * 

Wait,  like  an  echo,  till  you're  spoken  to — 

Jul.     Or  like  a  clock,  talk  only  once  an  hour  ? 

Duke.     Or  like  a  dial  ;  for  that  quietly 
Performs  its  work,  and  never  speaks  at  all. 

Jul.     To  feed  your  poultry  and  your  hogs  1 — Oh,  mons- 
trous 1 
And  when  I  stir  abroad,  on  great  occasioui 
Carry  a  squeaking  tithe  pig  to  the  vicar  j 


SoKVl!  I.]  THK    HONKYIIOON.  19 

Or  jolt  with  higglers'  wires  the  market  trot 

To  sell  your  eggs  and  butter  1  ICro^ses,  l. 

Duke.     Excellent ! 
How  well  you  sum  the  duties  of  a  wife  ! 
Why,  what  a  blessing  I  shall  have  in  you  I 

Jul.     A  blessing  1 

Duke.     When  they  talk  of  you  and  ine, 
Dnrby  and  Joan  shall  no  more  be  remembered  : — 
•  ^Ve  shall  be  happy  I 

Jul.     Shall  we  ? 

Duke.     Wondrous  happy  1 
Oh,  yon  will  make  an  admirable  wife  I 

Jul.     I'll  make  a  devil. 

Duke.     What  ? 

Jv2.     A  very  devil. 

Duke.     Oh,  no  !     We'll  have  no  devils. 

Jul.     I'll  not  bear  it ! 
I'll  to  my  father's  ! — 

Duke.     Gently  :  you  forget 
You  are  a  perfect  stranger  to  the  road. 

Jul.     My  wrongs  will  find  a  way,  or  make  one. 

Duke.     Softly  1 
'i'ou  stir  not  hence,  except  to  take  the  air  ; 
And  then  I'll  breathe  it  with  you. 

Jul.     What,  confine  me  ? 

Duke.     'Twould  be  unsafe  to  trust  you  yet  abroack 

Jul.     Am  I  a  truant  schoolboy  ? 

Duke.     Nay,  not  so  ; 
But  you  must  keep  your  bounds. 

Jul.     And  if  I  break  them 
Perhaps  you'll  beat  me. — 

Duke.     Beat  you  1 
The  man  that  lays  his  hand  upon  a  woman, 
8;ive  in  the  way  of  kindness,  is  a  wretch 
\Vhom  'twere  gross  flattery  to  name  a  coward— 
I'll  talk  to  you,  lady,  but  not  beat  you. 

Jul.     Well,  if  I  may  not  travel  to  my  father 
I  may  write  to  him,  surely  1 — And  I  will — 
If  I  can  meet  within  your  spacious  dukedom 
Three  such  unhoped-for  miracles  at  once, 
As  pens,  and  ink,  and  paper. 

Duke.     You  will  find  Ihem 


20  THE   HONEYMOON-.  [AcT  I 

In  the  next  room. — A  word,  before  you  go — 
You  are  my  wife,  by  every  tie  that's  sacred  ; 
The  partner  of  my  fortune  and  my  bed — 

Jul.     Your  fortune  ! 

Duke.     Peace  ! — No  fooling,  idle  woman  1 
Beneath  th'  attesting  eye  of  Heaven  I've  sworn 
To  love,  to  honour,  cherish,  and  protect  you. 
No  human  power  can  part  us.     What  remains,  then  ? 
To  fret,  and  worry  and  torment  each  other, 
And  give  a  keener  edge  to  our  hard  fate 
By  sharp  upbraidings,  and  perpetual  jars  ? — 
Or,  like  a  loving  and  a  patient  pair 
f  Waked  from  a  dream  of  grandeur,  to  depend 
Upon  their  daily  labour  for  support,) 
To  soothe  the  taste  of  fortune's  lowliness 
With  sweet  consent,  and  mutual  fond  endearment  ? — 
Now  to  your  cliamber — write  whate'er  you  please  ; 
But  pause  before  you  stain  the  spotless  pajjer. 
With  words  that  may  inflame,  but  cannot  heal  ! 

Jul.     Why,  wliat  a  patient  worm  you  take  rae  for  ! 

Duke.     I  took  you  for  a  wife  ;  and,  ere  I've  done. 
I'll  know  you  for  a  good  one. 

Jid.     You  shall  know  me 
For  a  right  woman,  full  of  her  own  sex  ; 
Wlio,  when  she  suffers  wrong,  will  speak  her  anger  ; 
^Vho  feels  her  own  prerogative,  and  scorns, 
By  the  proud  reason  of  superior  man, 
To  be  taagiit  patience,  when  her  swelling  heart 
Cries  out  revenge  1  \_E:nt  at  door  in  a 

Duke.     Wliy,  let  the  flood  rage  on  1 
There  is  no  tide  in  woman's  wildest  passion 
But  hath  an  ebb. — I've  broke  the  ice,  however. — 
Write  (o  her  fatlier  ! — She  may  write  a  folio — 
But  if  she  send  it  ! — 'Twill  divert  her  spleen, — 
The  (low  of  ink  may  save  her  blood-letting. 
Perchance  she  may  have  fits  ! — They  are  seldom  mortal, 
Save  when  the  Doctor's  sent  for. — 
Though  I  have  heard  some  husbands  say,  and  wisely, 
A  woman's  honour  is  her  safest  guard, 

Yet  there's  some  virtue  in  a  lock  and  key.       [LocJcs  th  door. 
So,  thus  begins  our  honey-moon. — 'Tis  well  1 
For  tlie  first  fortnight,  ruder  than  March  winds. 


Scene  II.]  the  honeymoon.  21 

She'll  blow  a  hnrrrcane.     The  next,  perhnps, 

Like  April  she  may  wear  a  changeful  face 

Of  storm  and  sunshine  :  and,  when  that  is  past, 

She  will  break  glorious  as  unclouded  May  ; 

And  where  the  thorns  grew  bare,  the  spreading  blosisoraa 

Meet  with  no  lagging  frost  to  kill  their  sweetness.^ 

Whilst  others,  for  a  month's  delirious  joy. 

Buy  a  dull  age  of  penance,  we,  more  wisely, 

Taste  first  the  wholesome  bitter  of  the  cup, 

That  after  to  the  very  lees  shall  relish  ; 

And  to  the  close  of  this  frail  life  prolong 

The  pure  delights  of  a  well-governed  marriage.      I^xif,  r. 

Scene  II. — BaUhazar^s  house. 

Enter  Balthazar,  followed  hy  the  Count,  disguised  as  a  Friar, 

R. 

Bat.     These  things  premised,  you  have  my  full  consent 
To  try  my  daughter's  humour  ; 

But  observe  me,  sir  ! 

I  will  use  no  compulsion  with  my  cliild  : 

If  I  had  tendered  thus  her  sister  Zamora, 

1  should  not  now  have  mourned  a  daughLor  lost  I 

Enter  Volaxte,  l. 

Vol.     What  is  yonr  pleasure  ? 

Bui.     Know  this  holy  man  ; 

[^Introducing  the  Count  to  her. 
It  is  the  father  confessor  I  spoke  of. 
Though  lie  looks  young,  in  all  things  which  respect 
His  sacred  function  he  is  deeply  learned. 

Vol.     It  is  the  Count  1  [Aside. 

Bal.     I  leave  you  to  his  guidance:  \_Crossts,  r. 

To  his  examination  and  free  censure. 
Commit  yonr  actions  and  your  private  thoughts. 

Vol.     I  shall  o\)serve,  sir—  [ii.a/,  Bulfhazftr,  R. 

Nay,  'tis  he,  111  swear  1  [Asjde 

Count.      Pray  Heaven  she   don't  suspect   me  !      Well, 
youQg  lady,  you  have  heard  your  father's  commands  ? 

Vol.     Yes  :  and  now  he  has  left  us  alone,  what  are  we  to 
do? 

Couat     I  am  to  listen  and  you  are  to  coufess. 


22  THE  HONEYMOON.  [AcT  II, 

Vol.  "What  I  And  then  you  are  to  confoss,  and  I  am  to 
listen  ? — Oh  I  I'll  take  care  you  shall  do  peiiauoe   tiio;i;;:i 

Count.     Pshaw  ! 

Vol.     Well  ;  but  when  am  I  to  confess  I 

Count.     Your  sins,  daughter  ;  your  sins. 

Vol..     What  !  all  of  them  ? 

Count.     Only  the  great  ones. 

Vol.  The  great  ones  I  Oh,  you  must  learn  those  of  my 
neiglibors,  whose  business  it  is,  like  yours,  to  confess  every 
l>ody's  sins  but  their  own,  If  now  you  would  be  content 
with  a  few  trifling  peccadilloes,  I  would  own  them  to  you 
with  all  the  frankness  of  an  author,  who  gives  his  reader  the 
paltry  errata  of  the  press,  but  leave  him  to  find  out  all  the 
capital  blunders  of  the  work  itself. 

Count,     l^aj,  lady,  this  is  trifling  :  I  am  in  haste. 

Vol.  In  haste  I  Then  suppose  I  confess  my  virtues  ? 
You  shall  have  the  catalogue  of  them  in  a  single  breath 

Count.     Nay,  then,  I  must  call  your  father. 

Vol.  Why,  then,  to  be  serious  : — If  you  will  tell  me  of 
any  very  enormous  offences  which  I  may  have  lately  connnit- 
ted,  I  shall  have  no  objection  in  the  world  to  acknowledge 
tlieni  to  you. 

Count.     It  is  publicly  reported,  daughter,  you  are  in  love. 

Vol.  So,  so  1  Are  you  there  I  (Aside')  Tliat  I  am  iu 
love  ? 

Count.     With  a  man — 

Vol.     Why,  what  should  a  woman  be  in  love  with  ? 

Count.     You  interrupt  me,  lady. — A  young  man. 

Vol.  I'm  not  in  love  with  au  old  one,  certainly. — But  \i 
love  a  crime,  father  ? 

Count.     Heaven  forbid  ! 

Vol.     Why,  then,  you  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

Count.     Ay,  but  tlie  concealing  it  is  a  crime. 

Vol.     Oh,  tlic  concealing  it  is  a  crime  ? 

Count.     Of  the  lirst  magnitude. 

Vol.     Why,  then,  I  confess — 

Count.     Well,  what? 

Vol.    That  the  Count  Mantalban— 

Count.     Go  on  I 

Vol.     la— 

Coi.nt.     Proce':?d  I 


ScRXE  II."|  THK  HOXKVMOUN.  23 

Vol.     Desperately  in  love  with  me 

Count.     Pshaw  !    Tiiat's  not  the  point  1 

Vol.  Well,  well,  I'm  comiuj;^  to  it :  and  not  being  able  in 
his  own  person  to  learn  the  state  of  my  affections,  has  taken 
the  benefit  of  clergy,  and  assumed  the  disguise  of  a  friar. 

Count.     Discovered  1 

Vol.  Ha  !  ha  1  ha  ! — You  are  but  a  young  masqrader 
or  you  wouldn't  have  left  your  vizor  at  home.  Come,  come, 
Count,  pull  off  your  lion's  apparel,  and  confess  yourself  an 
ass.  [  Count  takes  off  the  Friarh  gown. 

Count.     Nay,  Yolante,  hear  me  ! 

Vol.  Not  a  step  nearer  1 — The  snake  is  still  dangerous, 
though  he  has  cast  his  skin.  I  believe  you  are  the  first  lover 
on  record,  that  ever  attempted  to  gain  the  affections  of  his 
mistress  by  discovering  her  faults.  Now,  if  you  had  found 
out  more  virtues  in  my  mind  than  there  will  ever  be  room 
for,  and  more  charms  in  my  person  than  ever  my  looking- 
glass  can  create,  why,  then,  indeed — 

Count.     What  then  ? 

Vol.  Then  I  might  have  confessed  what  it's  now  impos- 
sible I  can  ever  confess  ;  and  so  farewell,  my  noble  count 
confessor !  [^Exit,  i,. 

CoiiQit.     Farewell 
And  when  I've  hit  upon  the  longitude, 
And  plumbed  the  yet  unfathomed  ocean, 
I'll  make  another  venture  for  thy  love. 
Here  comes  her  father. — I'll  be  fooled  no  longer. 

Enter  Balthazar,  r. 

Bal.     Well,  sir,  how  thrive  you  ? 

Count.     E'en  as  I  deserve  : 
Your  daughter  has  discovered,  mock'd  at,  and  left  me. 

Bal.     Yet  I've  another  scheme. 

Count.     Whatis't? 

Bal.     My  daughter, 
r>eing  a  lover  of  my  art,  of  late 
Has  vehemently  urged  to  see  your  portrait  ; 
Wliich,  now,  'tis  fiuish'd,  I  stand  pledged  she  shall. 
(lO  to  the  pielvire  ruoni — and  stand  there  eoneeal'd  : 
Here  is  the  key.     I'll  send  my  daughter  straight  : 
And  if,  as  we  snsp'^et,  her  heart  leans  tow'rds  you, 


24  THE    HO.VEMOON.  [AcT  II 

In  some  ung-uarded  gesture,  speech,  or  action, 

Her  love  will  suddenly  break  out  — Away  !   [  Count  crosses  n 

I  hear  her  coming. 

Count.     There's  some  hope  in  this. 

BaL     It  shall  do  wonders. — Hence  I  ExU  CouxT;  h. 

Enter  Volante,  l. 

Vol.     What,  is  he  gone,  sir  ? 

Bill.  Gone  !  D'ye  you  think  the  man  is  made  of  marhle  ? 
Yes,  he  is  gone, 

VcL.     For  ever  ? 

Bal.     Ay,  forever. 

Vol.     Alas,  poor  Count  ! — Or  has  he  only  lei't  you 
To  study  some  new  character?     Pray,  tell  me, 
What  will  he  next  appear  iu  ? 

Bal.     This  is  folly. 
'Tis  time  to  call  your  wanton  spirits  home— - 
You  are  too  wild  of  speech. 

Vol.     My  thoughts  are  free,  sir  ; 
And  those  I  utter — 

Bal.     Far  too  quickly,  girl ; 
\''our  shrewdness  is  a  scarecrow  to  your  beauty. 

Vot,  It  will  fright  none  but  fools,  sir  :  meii  of  sense  must 
naturally  admire  in  us  the  quality  they  most  value  in  them- 
selves ;  a  blockhead  only  protests  against  the  wit  of  a  wo- 
man, because  he  cannot  answer  her  drafts  upon  his  under- 
staudiug.  But  now  we  talk  of  the  Count,  don't  you  remem- 
ber your  promise,  sir  ? 

Bal.     Umr.h  !  (Aside.)  What  promise,  girl  ? 

Vol.     That  I  slionld  see  your  picture  of  him 

Bal.  So  you  shall,  when  you  can  treat  the  original  with 
a  little  more  respect. 

Vol.     IS' ay,  sir,  a  promise  ! 

Bal.  Well,  you'll  find  the  door  open.  fVoLANXK  crosses 
n.)  But,  before  you  go,  tell  me  honestly,  how  do  you  like 
the  count,  his  person,  and  uiid  I's  a  iding  ? 

Vol.  Why,  as  to  his  jjcrson,  1  dou't  think  he's  handsome 
enough  to  pine  himself  to  deatl)  for  his  own  shadow,  like 
the  youtii  in  the  fountain — nor  yet  so  ugly  .as  to  be  frighteh- 
ed  to  dissolution  if  he  shoukl  look  at  iiimself  iu  a  glass. 
Then,  as  to  his  uud(U'slaiuliiig,  he  has  hardly  wit  enough  to 
pass  for  a  niadiuau,  nor  yet  so -little  as  to  bo  taken  for  a  fool 


Scene  III.]  the  hon2YMOON,  25 

In  short,  sir,  I  think  the  Count  is  very  well  worlh  any  yoiiiiL,^ 
woman's  contemplation — when  she  hasuo  better  earthly  thing 
to  think  about. 

[Runs  off,  n. 
Bal.     So  the  glad  bird,  that  flutters  from  the  net, 
Grown  wanton  with  the  thought  of  his  escape, 
Flies  to  the  hmed  bush,  and  there  is  caught. 
I'll  steal  and  watch  their  progress.  [^E:cit,  r. 

Scene  III.  —  T/ie  Picture  Room. 

The  Count  discovered  concealing  himself  behind  his  portrait. 

Enter  Volante,  r. 

Vol.  Confess  that  I  love  the  Count ! — A  woman  may  do 
a  more  foolish  thing  than  to  fall  in  love  with  such  a  man, 
and  a  wiser  one  than  to  tell  him  of  it.  {Looks  at  the  picture  ) 
'Tis  very  like  him — the  hair  is  a  shade  too  dark — and  rather 
too  much  complexion  for  a  despairing  enamorato.  Confess 
that  I  love  him  ! — Now  there  is  only  his  picture  :  I'll  see  if 
I  can't  play  the  confessor  a  little  better  than  he  did.  (She 
advances  in  centre  of  the  stage  to  speak  the  fvllowing.  The 
Count  comes  from,  behind  the  picture  and  listens.)  "  Daughter, 
they  tell  me  you're  in  love  ?" — "  Well,  father,  there  is  no 
harm  in  speaking  the  truth." — "  With  the  Count  Montalban, 
daugliter  ? — "  Father,  you  are  not  a  confessor,  but  a  conju- 
ror !"— -"  They  add,  moreover,  that  yon  have  named  the  day 
for  your  marriage  ?" — "There,  father,  you  arc  misinformed  ; 
for,  like  a  discreet  maiden,  I  have  left  that  for  him  to  do." 
Then  he  should  throw  off  his  disguise — I  should  gaze  at  him 
with  astonishment — he  should  open  his  arms,  whilst  I  sunk 
gently  into  them — (2'he  Count  catcJies  her  in  his  arms.) — Tlie 
Count  1 

Enter  Balthazar,  r.  u.  e. 

— My  father,  too  I  Nay,  then,  I  am  fairly  hunted  into  the 
toil.  There,  take  my  hand.  Count,  while  I  am  free  to  give 
it. 

Enter  Oljiedo,  with  a  Letter,  r. 

Olm.     A  letter,  sir.  [EjiJ.w. 

Bal.     From  Juliana.  \_Opens  Ine  lelle\ 

Vol.     (c.)  Well,  what  says  she,  sir? 


26  THE    HONEYMOON.  [AoT  II. 

Count,     (l.)  This  will  spoil  all.  [Aside. 

Vol,     It  bears  untoward  news  : 
I«  she  not  well,  sir  ? 

Bal     (r.;  'Tis  not  that! 

Vol.     What  then,  sir?— 
See  how  he  knits  his  brow  ! 

Bal.     Here  must  be  throats  cut 

I  <;/.     AVhat  moves  you  thus  sir  ? 

Bill.     That  would  stir  a  statue  I 
Your  friend's  a  villain,  sir  I  (Crosses  to  the  Count)     Read, 

read  it  out — 
And  you,  if  I  mistake  not,  are  another  1 

Vol.     What  can  this  mean  ? 

Bal.     Peace  I  hear  hiin  read  the  letter. 

Count.     [Reads.]  Dearest  father !  I  am  deceived,  betrayed, 
insulted  ! 

The  man  tchoni  I  have  viarried,  is  no  duke  .'" 

Vol.     No  duke  1 

Bal.     I'll  be  revenged  1     Read,  sir — read  I 

Count.      [Reads.]      "  He  has  neither  fortune.,  family  nor 
friends." — 

B(d.    You  must  have  known  all  this,  six* — But  proceed  ! 

Count.  [Reads.]  "  He  keeps  me  a  prisoner  here,  in  a  miser- 
aide  hovel  ;  from  whence,  unless  I  am  speedily  rescued  by  your  in- 
terference, you  may  never  hear  more  of  yojir  forhrrn,  abused, 

"  Juliana." 

Bal.     What  answer  you  to  this,  sir  ? 

Count.     Nothing. 

Vol.     How  ! 

Bal.     'Tis  plain  you  are  a  partner  in  the  trick 
Tiuit  robb'd  a  doting  father  of  his  child. 

Count.     Suspend  your  anger  but  a  few  short  days, 
And  you  shall  lind,  though  now  a  mystery 
Involves  my  friend — 

B(d.     A  mystery  !     What  mystery  I 
There  are  no  mysteries  in  honest  men  : 
What  mystery,  1  say,  can  salve  this  conduf;t  ? 
Is  he  a  duke  '{ 

Count,  1  cannot  answer  that.  [^Crosses,  r 

Bal.     Then  he's  a  villain  I 

Count.     Nay,  upon  my  soul, 
He  means  yon  fairly,  honourably,  uobly. 


ScE>fE  IV.]  rHE  HONKYMOOX.  t^ 

Bid.     I  will  away  to  night, — Olniedo  1     Perez  ! 
Get  my  horses  ! 

You  have  some  mystery,  too,  sir  !     But,  ere  I  set 
My  sole  survivinp;  hope  on  such  an  hazard, 
I'll  look  into  your  countship's  pedigree  ; 
And  for  your  noble,  honourable  duke, 
I'll  travel  night  and  day  until  I  reach  him  ! 
And  he  shall  find  I  am  not  yet  so  old 
But  that  my  blood  will  flame  at  such  an  insult, 
And  ray  sword  leap  into  my  grasp.     Believe  me 
I  will  have  full  revenge  ! 

Count.     You  shall. 

Bal.     I  will,  sir  ! 
And  speedily  1 

Count.     Proceed,  then,  on  your  journey. 
With  your  good  leave,  I'll  bear  you  company. 
And  as  the  traveler,  perplex'd  awhile 
In  the  benighting  mazes  of  a  forest. 
Breaks  on  a  champaign  country,  smooth  and  level, 
And  sees  the  sun  shine  glorious,  so  shall  yon,  sir. 
Behold  a  bright  close,  and  a  golden  end. 
To  this  now  dark  adventure. 

Vol.     Go,  my  father  I 

Bal.     Y'ou  speak  in  riddles,  sir  ;  yet  you  speak  tv    ■ 

Count.     And,  if  I  speak  not  truly,  may  my  hope 
In  this  fair  treasure  be  extinct  forever  ! 

Bal.     Then  quickly  meet  us  here,  prepared  for  travel 
If,  from  the  cloud  that  overhangs  us  now. 
Such  light  shall  break  as  you  have  boldly  promised. 
My  daughter  and  my  blessing  still  are  yours,  sir. 

Count.     Blest  in  that  word,  I  quit  yon.  [Erit,  r. 

Bal.     Come,  girl  !  [Crosses,  r. 

This  shall  be  sifted  thoroughly  :  till  then 
You  must  remain  a  fresh  ungather'd  flower. 

Vol.     Well,  sir  ;  I  am  not  yet  so  overblown, 
But  I  may  hang  some  time  npon  the  tree. 
And  still  be  worth  the  plucking.  [JExeunt,  l. 

ScENK  IV. —  The  cottage. —  Table,  ckair. 

Enter  the  Duke,  r.  in  a  peasant's  Dress  :  he  unlocks  the  Door 
in  Flat. 
Duke.     Slie  hath  composed  a  letter  ;  and  what's  worse 


28  •  THE  HONEYMOON.  [AcT  II. 

Contrived  to  send  it  by  a  village  boy 

Tliat  passed  the  window. — Yet  she  now  appears 

Profoundly  penitent.     It  cannot  be  ; 

'Tis  a  conversion  too  miraculous. 

Her  cold  disdain  yields  with  too  free  a  spirit ; 

Like  ice,  which,  melted  by  unnatural  heat — 

Not  by  the  gradual  and  kindly  thaw 

Of  the  resolving  elements — give  it  air, 

Will  straight  congeal  again. — She  comes — I'll  try  her 

Enter  Juliana  in  a  Peasant's  Dress,  through  Door  in  Front. 

Why,  what's  the  matter  now  ? 

Jiol.     That  foolish  letter  1 

Duke.     What  I     You  repent  of  having  written  it  ? 

Jul.     I  do,  indeed.     I  could  cut  off  my  fingers 
For  being  partners  in  the  act. 

DuJie.     No  matter  ; 
You  may  indite  one  in  a  milder  spirit, 
That  shall  pluck  out  its  sting, 

Jul.     I  can — 

Duke.     You  must. 

Jul.     I  can. 

Dnice.     You  shall. 

Jul.     I  will,  if  'tis  your  pleasure. 

Duke.     Well  replied. 
I  now  see  plainly  you  have  found  your  wits, 
And  are  a  sober,  metamorphosed  woman. 

Jul.     I  am,  indeed. 

Duke.     I  know  it  ;  I  can  read  you. 
There  is  a  true  contrition  in  your  looks  :— 
Y''ours  is  no  penitence  in  masquerade — 
You  are  not  playing  on  me  ? 

Jul.     Playing,  sir. 

Duke.     You  have  found  out  the  vanity  of  those  things 
For  which  you  lately  sigh'd  so  deep  ? 

Jul.     I  have,  sir. 

Duke.     A  dukedom  ! — Pshaw  1 — It  is  an  idle  thmg 

Jul.     I  have  begun  to  think  so. 

Duke.     Tiiat'.s  a  lie  !  [AsitU. 

Is  not  this  tran(]uil  and  retired  spot 
More  ricli  in  real  pleasures,  than  a  palace  ? 

Jul.     I  hke  it  iulinitely. 


SCEXE   IV.]  THE   HONEYMOON.  29 

Duke.     Tliat's  another  !  \ Aside 

Tiu'  mansion's  small,  'tis  true,  but  vcr}'  saug 

hd      Exceediiii^  snug-  ! 

Dni;e.     The  tuniiiure  not  splendid, 
But  then  all  useful  ! 

Jul.     All  exceeding  useful  1 
There's  not  a  piece  on't  but  serves  twenty  purposes. 

\^Asicle. 

Dwke.     And,  though  we're  seldom  plagued  by  visitors, 
We  have  the  best  of  company — oui"selves. 
>i'or,  whilst  our  limbs  are  full  of  active  youth, 
iSeed  we  loll  in  a  carriage  to  provoke 
A  lazy  circulation  of  the  blood, 

[  Takes  Iter  arvi  and  walks  about. 
When  walking  is  a  nobler  exercise. 

Jill.     ]More  wholesome  too. 

Diikc.     And  far  less  dangerous. 

Jul.     That's  certain  ! 

Duke.     Then  for  servants,  all  agree, 
They  are  the  greatest  plagues  on  earth. 

Jul.     No  doubt  on't  ! 

Duke.     Who,  then,  that  has  a  taste  for  happiness, 
Would  live  in  a  large  mansion,  only  fit 
To  be  an  habitation  for  the  winds  ; 
Keep  gilded  ornaments  for  dust  and  spielers  ; 
See  every  body,  care  for  nobody  ; 
When  they  could  live  as  we  do  ? 

Jul.     Who,  radeed  ? 

Dulie.     Here  we  want  nothing. 

Jul.     Nothing  ! — Yes,  one  thing. 

Duke.     Indeed  !     What's  that  * 

Jul.     You  will  be  angry  I 

Duke.     Nay — 
Not  if  it  be  a  reasonable  thing. 

Jul.     What  wants  the  bird,  who,  from  his  wiry  prison. 
Sings  to  the  passing  travellers  of  air 
A  wistful  note — that  she  were  with  them,  sir  1 

Duke      Umph  I     AVhat,  your  liberty  ?     I  see  it  now. 

[^Asidt. 

Jul     'Twere  a  pity  in  such  a  paradise 
I  should  be  caged  ! 

Duke.     Why,  whither  would  you,  wife  ? 


30  THE    HONEYMOON-.  [ACT  III. 

Jul.     Only  to  taste  tlie  iresliacss  "■•;    j.e  air, 
That  breathes  a  wholesome  spirit  froiu  without  ; 
And  weave  a  chaplet  for  you,  of  those  flowers 
That  throw  their  perfume  through  my  window  bars, 
And  then  I  will  return,  sir. 

Duke.     Your  are  free  ; — 

[Juliana  crosses  l.,  Duke  takes  he)'  r.  hand. 
But  use  your  freedom  wisely. 

Jul.    Doubt  me  not,  sir  1 — 
I'll  use  it  quickly  too.  [Aside,  and  Exit,  l. 

Duke.     But  I  do  doubt  you. — 
There  is  a  lurking  devil  in  her  eye, 
That  plays  at  bopeep  there,  in  spite  of  her.— 
Her  anger  is  but  smother'd  not  burnt  out — 
And  ready,  give  it  vent,  to  blaze  again. 
You  have  your  liberty — 
But  I  shall  watch  you  closely,  lady, 
And  see  that  you  abuse  it  not.  [Exit,  u 

END    OF    ACT    II. 


ACT    III. 

Scene  I. — An  Inn. 

Rolando  sitting  at  a  Table  with  wine. — Two  Chairs. 

Rol.     'Sdeath,  that  a  reasonable  thinking  man 
Should  leave  his  friend  and  bottle  for  a  woman  1 — 
Here  is  the  Count,  now,  who,  in  other  matters, 
Has  a  true  judgment,  only  seethe  his  blood 
With  a  full  glass  beyond  his  usual  stint, 
And  woman  like  a  wildfire,  runs  throughout  him. — 
Immortal  man  is  but  a  shuttlecock, 
And  wine  and  women  are  the  battledores 
Tiiat  keep  him  going  !— What  1     Eugenio  1 
Enter  Zamora,  (as  Eugenio.)  l. 

Znm.     Your  pleasure,  sir  ? 

Rol.     I  am  alone,  and  wish  you  to  finish  the  story  you 

U  is  mournful,  yet  'tis  pleasing  I 


Scene  I.]  the  honf.tmoon.  81 

Zam.     It  was,  indeed,  a  melancholy  tale 
From  which  I  learnt  it. 

Hoi.     Lives  it  with  you  still  1 
Zam.     Faintly,  as  would  an  ill-remeinber'd  dream,  sir  ; 
Yet  so  far  I  remember — Now  my  heart —  \Asidt, 

'Twas  of  a  gentleman — a  soldier,  sir. 
Of  a  brave  spirit ;  and  his  outward  form 
A  frame  to  set  a  soul  in.     He  had  a  page, 
Just  such  a  boy  as  I,  a  faithful  stripling, 
Who,  out  of  pure  affection,  and  true  love, 
Follow'd  his  fortune  to  the  wars. 

Rol.     Why  this 
Is  our  own  history. 

Zam.     So  far  indeed. 
But  not  beyond,  it  bore  resemblance,  sir. 
For  in  the  sequel  (so,  sir,  the  story  ran) — 
Turn'd  out  to  be  a  woman. 

liol.     How  !  a  woman  ? 

Zam.     Yes,  sir,  a  woman. 

Rol.     Live  with  him  a  twelvemonth, 
And  he  not  find  the  secret  out  ! 

Zam.    'Twas  strange  ! 

Rol.     Strange  !  'twas  impossible  !     At  the  first  blush, 
A  palpable  and  most  transparent  lie  ! 
Why,  if  the  soldier  had  been  such  an  ass, 
She  had  herself  betray'd  it  ! — 

Zavi.     Yet,  'tis  said, 
She  kept  it  to  her  death  ; — that  oft  as  love 
Would  heave  the  struggling  passion  to  her  lips. 
Shame  set  a  seal  upon  them  ;  thus  long  time 
She  nourish'^,  in  this  strife  of  love  and  modesty, 
^  w  inward  slow-cousumiug  martyrdom. 
Till,  in  the  sight  of  him  her  soul  most  cherished,— 
liike  flow'rs,  that  on  a  river's  margin  fading 
Through  lack  of  moisture,  drop  into  the  stream, — 
So,  sinking  in  his  arms,  her  parting  breath 
Reveal'd  her  story, 

Rol.     You  have  told  it  well,  boy  ! — 

Znm.     I  feel  it  deeply,  sir  ;  I  knew  the  lady 

Rx)l.     Knew  her  !     You  don't  believe  it  ? 

Zfim.     What  regards 


33  THE   HOMEVMOOX.  [AcT  III. 

Her  deatli  F  will  not  vouch  for  ;  but  the  rest — 

Her  hopeless  love,  tier  silent  patienet;, 

The  struggle  'twixt  her  passion  and  her  priUe — 

1  was  a  witness  to. — Indeed,  her  story 

Is  a  most  true  one. 

Rol.     She  should  not  have  died  ! — 
A  wench  like  this  were  worth  a  soldier's  love, 
And  were  she  living  now 

Enter  the  Count,  l. 

Zam.     (Aside.)     'Tis  well  1        [  Eola  ndo  crosses  to  Count, 

Count.     Strange  things  have  happeu'd,  since  we  parted, 
captain  ! — 
T  must  away  to-night. 

Rol.     To-night  and  whither  ? 

Count.     'Tis  yet  a  secret.     Thus  much  you  shall  know. 
If  a  short  fifty  miles  you'll  bear  me  company 
You  shall  see 

Rol.     What  ? 

Count.     A  woman  tamed. 

Rol.     No  more ! 
I'll  go  a  hundred  1 — Do  I  know  the  lady  ? 

Count.     What  think  you  of  our  new-made  duchess  ? 

Rol.     She  ? 
What  mortal  man  has  undertaken  her  ? — 
Perhaps  the  keeper  of  the  beasts,  the  fellow 
That  puts  his  head  into  the  lion's  mouth, 
Or  else  some  tiger-tamer  to  a  nabob  1 

Count.     Who,  but  her  husband  ? 

Rol.     With  what  weapons? 

Count.     Words. 

Rol.     With  words  ?     Why,  then,  ne  raust  invent  a  lan- 
guage 
Which  yet  the  learned  have  no  glimpses  of. 
Fasting  and  fustigation  may  do  something  ; 
I've  heard  that  death  will  quiet  some  of  them  ; 
Jiiit  words  ! — mere  words  !  cool'd  by  the  breath  of  man  I— 
He  may  preach  tame  a  howling  wilderness  ; 
Silence  a  fuli-month'd  battery  with  snow-balls  ; 
(.iuench  (in;  -vith  oil  ;  with  his  r(>pelling  breath 
Futr  back  the  northern  blast ;  whistle  'gainst  thunder  : 
These  things  are  feasible. — But  still  a  woman 


Scene  II.]  the  honeymoon.  33 

Witli  the  nine  parts  of  speech  ! —  [Crosses  l 

Count.     You  know  him  not. 

Rol.     I  know  the  lady. 

Count.     Yet,  1  tell  you 
He  has  the  trick  to  draw  the  serpent's  fanjj^, 
And  yet  not  spoil  her  beauty. 

Rol.     Could  he  discourse,  with  fluent  eloquence, 
More  languages  than  Babel  sent  abroad, 
The  simple  rhet'ric  of  her  mother  tongue 
Would  pose  him  presently  ;  for  woman's  voice 
Sounds  like  a  fiddle  in  a  concert,  always 
The  shrillest,  if  not  the  loudest,  instrument. 
But  we  shall  see.  [J^xeunt  Count  and  Rolando,  L 

Zavi.  He  was  touch'd,  surely,  with  the  piteous  tale 
Which  I  deliver'd  ;  and  but  that  the  Count 
Prevented  him,  would  have  broken  freely  out 
Into  a  full  confession  of  his  feeling 
Tow'rds  such  a  woman  as  I  painted  to  him. — 
Why,  then,  ray  boy's   habiliments,  adieu  ! 
Henceforth,  my  woman's  gear — I'll  trust  to  you.       \_Exit,  r. 

Scene  II. —  IVie  Didc's  Pcdace,      A  Stale  Chair,  c. 

Enter  Campillo,  the  DuLe^s  Steward,  and  Pedro,  b. 

Fed.  But  can  no  one  tell  the  meaning  of  this  fancy  ? 

Cam.  No  :  'tis  the  Duke  pleasure,  and  that's  enough  for 
lis.     You  shall  hear  his  own  words  : — 

"  For  reasons,  that  I  shall  hereafter  communicate,  it  is  ne- 
cessary that  Jaquez  shoidd,  in  all  things,  at  present,  act  as  my 
representative;  you  will,  therefore,  command  my  household  to 
I  hey  him  as  myself,  until  yojc  hear  further  from 

("Signedj         Akanza." 

Fed.  Well,  we  must  wait  the  ui)shot.  But  how  l)ears 
Jaquez  his  new  dignity  ? 

Cam.  Like  most  men  in  whom  sudden  fortune  combats 
against  long-established  habit       [Laughing  without,  r.  u.  e. 

Fed.  By  their  merriment,  this  shoukl  be  he. 

Ca7n.  Stand  aside,  and  let  us  note  him.     [Exit  Pedro,  l. 

Elder  Jaquez,  r.  u.  e.  dressed  as  the  Duke,  folloiced  by  six 
Attendants,  who  in  vain  eiuleavour  to  restrain  their 
lawghteir. 


84  THE    HONEYMOON.  [AcT  til. 

Jaq.  Why,  you  ragamufiBns  !  What  d'ye  tittei-  at  ? 
Am  1  the  first  great  man  that  has  been  made  off  hand  by 
a  tailor  !  Show  your  grinders  again,  and  I'll  hang  you 
like  onions,  lifty  on  a  rope.  I  can't  think  what  they  see 
ridiculous  about  me,  except,  indeed,  that  I  feel  as  if  I  was 
in  armour,  and  my  sword  has  a  trick  of  getting  between  my 
legs  like  a  monkey's  tail,  as  if  it  was  determined  to  trip 
up  my  nobility. — And  now,  villains  !  Don't  let  me  see 
you  tip  the  wink  to  each  other,  as  I  do  the  honours  of  my 
table.  If  I  tell  one  of  my  best  stories,  don't  any  of  yon 
laugh  before  the  jest  comes  out,  to  shew  that  you  have 
heard  it  before  : — take  care  that  you  don't  call  me  by  my 
Christian  name,  and  then  pretend  it  was  by  accident  ;  that 
shall  be  transportation  at  least  : — and  when  I  drink  a  health 
to  all  friends,  don't  fancy  that  any  of  you  are  of  the 
number.- 

Enter  Pedro,  l. 

Well,  sir  ? 

Fed.  There  is  a  ladv  without  presses  vehemently  to  speak 
to  your  grace. 

Jaq.  A  lady  ? 

Fed.  Yes,  your  highness. 

Jnq.  Is  she  young  ? 

Fed.  Very,  your  grace  I 

Jaq.  Handsome  ? 

Fed.  Beautiful,  your  highness  I 

Jnq.  Send  her  in. — {Exit  Pedko,  l.) — You  may  retire  ; 
{The  aUendaiits  retire  up  the  Stage  a  little.)  I'll  finish  my 
instructions  bye-aud-bye. — Young  and  handsome  1 — I'll  at- 
tend to  her  business  in  ^propria  persona.  Your  old  and 
ugly  ones  I  shall  despatch  by  deputy.  Now  to  alarm  her 
with  my  consequence,  and  then  sooth  her  with  my  conde- 
scension. I  must  appear  important  :  big  as  a  country  pe- 
dagogue, when  he  enters  the  school  room  with — a-hem  ! 
and  terrifies  the  apple-munching  urchins  with  the  creaking 
of  his  shoes  I'll  swell  like  a  shirt  bleaching  in  a  high  wind  ; 
and  look  burly  as  a  Sunday  beadle,  when  he  has  kicked  down 
the  unhallowed  stall  of  a  profane  old  apple  woman. — Bring 
i\iy  cluvir  of  state  ! — Hush  ! 

Th&  attendamis  pla<&  tke  statu  thaiir^  c. 


Scene  Il.J  the  honeymoon.  85 

E7iter  Pedro  and  Juliaxa.       Pedro  goes  to  (he  ulher  alien- 
dants. 

Jul.  I  come,  great  duke,  for  justice  1 

Jaq.  You  shall  have  it. 
Of  what  do  you  couiplaiu  ? 

////.   My  husljaiid,  sir  ! 

Jnq    I'll  hang-  liira  instantly  ! — What's  his  offence  1 

Jul.  He  has  deceived  me. 

Jaq  A  very  common  case  ; — few  husbands  answer  thoit 
wives'  expectations. 

Jid.  He  has  abused  your  grace — 

Jaq  Indeed  ?  If  he  has  done  that,  he  swings  most  lof 
tiiy.     But  how,  hidy,  how  ? 

Jul.  Shortly  tlms,  sir  : 
Being  no  better  than  a  low-born  peasant, 
He  has  assumed  your  chai'acter  and  person — 

Enter  the  Duke,  l. 

Oh  !  you  are  here  ? — This  is  he,  my  lord. 

\_Crosses  behind  chair  to  r. 

Jaq.  Indeed  !  (Aside.)  Tlien  I  nuist  tickle  him.  Why, 
fellow,  d'ye  take  this  for  an  alehouse,  that  you  enter  with 
such  a  swagger  ? — Know  you  where  you  are,  sir  ? 

J}iiJ;e.     The  rouge  reproves  me  well  1     I  had  forgot — 

{^Aside. 
Most  humbly  I  entreat  your  grace's  pardon, 
For  this  uuusher'd  visit  ;  but  the  fear 
Of  what  this  wayward  woman  might  allege 
Beyond  the  truth — 

ful.    I  have  spoken  naught  but  truth. — 

Duke.     Has  made  me  thus  unmannerly 

.Jitq.     'Tis  well !     You  might  have  used  more  ceremony. 
I'roeeed.  \_To  Juliana 

.hi.     This  man,  my  lord,  as  I  was  saying, 
L'-.i.^-^ing  himself  upon  my  inexperience 
For  the  right  owner  of  this  sumptuous  palace, 
Ohtaiu'd  my  slow  consent  to  be  his  wile  : 
And  cheated,  by  this  shameful  perlidy. 
Me  of  my  hopes — my  father  of  his  child. 

Jaq.  Why,  this  is  swindling; — obtaining  another  man's 
goods   under   false    pretences, — that  is,    if  a   woman   be  a 


36  THE    HONEYMOON.  [ActIII, 

good — that  will  make  a  very  intricate  point  for  the  judges. 
—  v^ell,  sir,  what  have  you  to  say  in  your  defence  ? 

Diike.     1  do  confess  1  put  this  trick  upon  her  ; 
And  lor  my  transient  usurpation 
Of  your  most  noble  person,  with  contrition 
I  bow  me  to  the  rigour  of  the  law. — 
But  for  the  lady,  sir,  she  can't  complain. 

/(//.     How,  not  complain  ?     To  be  tiu;s  vilely  cozen'd, 
And  not  complain  ! 

Juq.     Peace,  woman  I — Though  justice  be  blind,  she  is 
not  deaf, 

Duke     He  does  it  to  the  life  ! —  {^Aside. 

Had  not  her  most  exceeding  pride  been  doting, 
She  might  have  seen  the  diff'rance,  at  a  glance, 
Between  your  grace  and  such  a  man  as  I  am. 

Jaq.     She  might  have  seen  that  certainly — Proceed. 

Duke.     Nor  did  I  fall  so  much  beneath  her  sphere, 
Being  what  I  am,  as  she  had  soar'd  above  it, 
Had  I  been  that  which  I  have  only  feigu'd. 

Jaq.     Yet  you  deceived  her  ? 

Jul.     Let  him  answer  that. 

Duke.     I  did  :  most  men  in  something  cheat  their  wives, 
Wives  gull  their  husbands  ;  'tis  the  course  of  wooing. 
Now,  bating  that  my  title  and  my  fortune 
Were  evanescent,  in  all  other  things 
1  acted  like  a  })Iain  and  honest  suitor. 
I  told  her  she  was  fair,  Imt  very  proud  ; 
That  she  had  taste  in  nnisic,  but  no  voice  ; 
Tliat  she  danced  well,  yet  still  might  borrow  grace 
From  such  or  such  a  lady.    To  be  ))rief, 
I  ])raised  her  for  no  quality  she  had  not, 
Kof  over-prized  the  talents  she  posscss'd  ; — 
Now,  save  in  what  I  have  before  confess'd, 
I  challenge  hei  worst  spite  to  answer  me. 
Whether,  in  all  attentions,  which  a  woman — 
A  gentle  and  a  reasonable  woman — . 
Looks  for,  I  have  not  to  the  height  fulhll'd, 
If  not  outgoiif',  her  expectations? 

Juq.     Why,  if  she  has  no  cause  of  complaint   since   yoa 
wer(;  married — 

Duke.     I  dare  her  to  the  proof  ou't. 

J(iq,     Is  it  so,  woman  ?  [To  Juliana. 


Scene  II.]  the  honeyiwon.  37 

Jul.     I  don't  complain  of  what  has  liappen'd  since  ; 
The  man  lias  made  a  tolerable  husband  ; 
But  for  the  monstrous  cheat  he  put  upon  me 
I  claim  to  be  divorced. 

J:iq.     It  cannot  be  I 

Jul.     Cannot  I  my  lord  ? 

Jaq.     No. — You  must  live  with  him. 

Jul.     Never  ! 

Dulce.     Or,  if  your  grace  will  give  me  leave — 
We  have  been  wedded  yet  a  few  short  days — 
Let  us  wear  out  a  month  as  man  and  wife  ; 
If  at  the  end  on't,  with  uplifted  hands, 
Morning  and  ev'uing,  and  sometimes  at  uooa, 
And  bended  knees,  she  doesn't  plead  more  warmly 
Than  e're  she  prayed  'gainst  stale  virginity. 
To  keep  me  for  her  husband — 

Jul.     If  I  do  !— 

Duke.     Then  let  her  will  be  done,  that  seeks  to  part  us  1 

Jul.     I  do  implore  your  grace  to  let  it  stand 
Upon  that  footing  ! 

Jaq.  Humph  I — Well,  it  shall  be  so  ! — With  this  provi' 
so — tha:  either  of  you  are  at  liberty  to  hang  yourselves  in 
the  mean  time.  \_Rises. 

[  The  Allendnnts  remove,  the  chair  back,  and  exeunt,  k.  u.  e. 

Duke.     We  tliank  your  providence. — Come,  Juliana — 

Jul.     Well,  there's  my  hand — a  month's  soon  past,  and 
then — 
I  am  j'^our  humble  servant,  sir. 

Duke.     For  ever. 

./;//.     Nay,  I'll  be  hang'd  first 

Duke.     That  may  do  as  well. 
Come,  you'll  think  better  on't  I 

Jul.     By  all— 

Duke.     No  swearing, 

Jul.     No,  no — no  swearing. 

Duke.     We  humbly  take  our  leaves. 

[E-reunt  Duke  and  Juliana,  i, 

Jaq.  I  begin  to  find,  by  the  strength  of  my  nerves,  and 
the  steadiness  of  my  countenance,  that  I  was  certainly  in- 
tended for  a  great  man  ; — foi'  what  more  does  it  require  to 
he  a  great  man,  than  bohlly  to  put  on  the  appearance  of 
it  ? — How  nuiu^  sage  politiciaiui  are  there,  who  can  scarce 


38  THE    HONEYMOON.  [ACT  III. 

comprehend  the  mystery  of  a  mouse-trap  ; — vahant  gene- 
rals, who  wouldn't  attack  a  bullrush  unless  the  wind  Avere 
in  tlieir  favour  ;  profound  lawyers,  who  would  make  excel- 
lent wig-blocks  ; — and  skilfui  pliysicians,  whose  knowl- 
edge extends  no  farther  than  writing  death-warrants  in 
Latin  ;  and  are  shining  examples — that  a  man  will  never 
want  gold  in  his  pocket,  who  carries  plenty  of  brass  in  his 
face  ! — It  will  be  rather  awkward,  to  be  sure,  to  resign  at 
the  end  of  a  month  : — but,  like  other  great  men  in  office,  I 
must  make  the  most  of  my  time,  and  retire  with  a  good 
grace,  to  avoid  being  turned  out — as  a  well-bred  dog  always 
walks  down  stairs,  when  he  sees  preparations  on  foot  for 
kicking  him  into  the  street.  [  Exit,  r. 

Scene  III. — An  Inn. 

Enter  Balthazar  as  having  fallen  from  his  Horse,  support- 
ed hy  VoLANTE  and  the  Count,  and  preceded  by  tlie  Hos- 
tess, L. 

Hostess.     This  way,  this  way,  if  you  please. — Alas,  poor 
gentleman  1     {Brings  a  chair.)    How  do  you  feel  now,  sir  ? 

[They  set  him  doirn. 
Bal.     I   almost  think  my   brains  are  where  they   should 

be 

Confound  the  jade  ! — Though  they  dance  merrily 
To  thier  own  music. 

Count.     Is  the  surgeon  sent  for  ? 
Hostess.     Here  he  comes,  sir. 

E7iter  Lampedo,  l. 

Lam.     Is  this  the  gentleman  ? 

[Advances towards  Balthazar, 

Bal.     I  wi.ut  no  surgeon  ;  all  my  bones  are  whole. 

Vol.     Pray  take  advice  I 

Bal.     Well  ! — doctor,  I  have  doubts 
Whether  my  soul  be  shaken  from  my  body, — 
Else  I  am  whole. 

Lavi.     Tiieii  yon  are  safe,  depend  on't  ; 
Your  soul  and  ))0(ly  are  not  yet  divorced — 
Though  if  they  were,  we  have  a  remedy. 
Nor  have  you  friulure,  sir,  simple  or  compound  : — 


SCEXE  II  r.]  THK    HOXF.YMOOiX.  89 

Yet  very  feverish  !     I  begin  to  fear 

Some  inward  bi'iiise — a  very  raging  pulse  1— 

We  must  phlebotomize  ! 

Bal.     You  won't !     Already 
Tiiere  is  too  little  blood  in  these  old  veins 
To  do  my  cause  full  justice. 

Lam.     Quick,  and  feverish  ! — 
He  must  lie  down  a  little  ;  for  as  yet 
^Vis  blood  and  sj)irits  being  all  in  motion, 
There  is  too  great  confusion  in  the  symptoms, 
To  judge  discreetly  from. 

Bal.     I'll  not  lie  down  1 

Vol.     Nay,  for  an  hour,  or  so  ? 

Well,  be  it  so. 

Hostess.     I'll  shew  you  to  a  chamber  :  this  way  tliis  way, 
if  you  please.  [Exeuut  all  hut  Lumpcdu,  r. 

Lam.     'Tis  the  first  patient,  save  the  miller's  mare, 
And  an  old  lady's  cat,  that  has  the  phthisic, 
That  I  have  toach'd  these  six  weeks. — Well,  good  hostess  I 

Re-enter  Hostess,  r. 

How  fares  your  guest  ? 

Hostess.     He  must  not  go  to  night  ! 

Lam.     No  ;  nor  to-morrow — 

Hostess.     Nor  the  next  day.  neither  ! 

Lam.     Leave  that  to  me. — 

Hostess.    He  has  no  hurt,  I  fear  ? 

Lam.     None  : — but,  as    you  are  his  cook,   and  I'm  his 
doctor. 
Such  things  may  happen. — You  must  make  him  ill. 
And  I  must  keep  him  so — for,  to  say  truth, 
Tis  the  first  biped  customer  I've  handled 
This  many  a  day  :  they  fall  but  slowly  in- 
Like  the  subscribers  to  my  work  on  fevers. 

Hostess.     Hard  times,  indeed  I — No  business  stirring  my 
way. 

Lam.     So  I  should  guess,  from  your  appearance,  Hostess, 
You  look  as  if,  for  lack  of  company, 
Yon  were  obliged  to  eat  up  your  whole  larder. 

Hostess.     Alas  !     'Tis  so — 
Yet  I  contrive  to  keep  my  spirits  up. 

Lam.     Yes  :  and  vour  fiesh  too.- -Look  at  me  I  * 


40  THE    HOXKYMOON.  [AcT  TIT 

TTosfes'!.      W!iy,  truly, 
You  look  iuVVi  sliirvcd. 

Lam.     Halt'  stivrvcd  !     I  wish  you'd  toll  me 
Wliirli  luili'of  mo  is  fed.     I  show  more  i»cints 
Thau  an  old  iiors<!,  that  has  been  three  weeks  pounded — 
"  Yet  I  do  all  to  tempt  them  into  siekness. 
"  Have  I  nor  in  tiie  jaws  of  bankni])tey, 
-"  And  to  liie  desolation  of  my  person, 
"  Painted  my  shoj),  that  it  looks  like  a  rainbow  ? 
"  New  doulile-gilt  my  pestle  and  my  mortar, 
"  That  some,  at  a  distance,  take  it  for  the  sun  ? 
"  And  blazed  in  flaming  letters  o'er  my  door. 
"  Each  one  a  glorious  constellation, 
"  Surgeon,  A))Othecary,  Accoticlier — 
"  (For  midwife  is  grown  vulgar)   ? — Y"et  they  ail  not. 
"  Phials  and  gallipots  still  keej)  their  ranks, 
"  As  if  there  was  no  cordial  virtue  in  them. 
"  The  healing  chime  of  pulverizing  drugs 
"  Tiiey  shun  as  'twere  a  tolling  bell,  or  death-watch. 
"  J  never  give  a  dose,  or  set  a  limb  !  " 
But,  come,  we  must  devise,    we  must  devise 
How  to  make  much  of  this  same  guest,  sweet  Hostess. 

Hostess.     You  know  I  always  make  the  most  of  them. 

Lorn.     Spoke    like    an    ancient    tapstress  ! — Come,  letV 
in — 
And,  wliilst  I  soothe  my  bowels  with  an  omelette 
(For  like  a  nest  of  new-waked  rooklings.  Hostess, 
They  caw  for  provender,)  and  :ake  a  glass 

Of  thy  Falernian— we  will  think  "of  means  

For  though  to  cure  men  be  beyond  our  skill, 

'Tis  hard,  indeed,  if  we  can't  keep  them  ill.  [E.rennf,  r. 

Scene   IY. —  The  Cottage,  a  Table  and  three  Chairs. 
Enter  the  Duke,  bringing  in  Jui>iana,  l.  d. 

Dide.     Nay,  no  resistance  ! — For  a  month,  ut  least, 
I  am  your  Imsband. 

.lid.     True  ! — And  what's  a  husband  ? 

JJiike.     ( Ptits   her   over   to   the   n.)    Why,  as  some  vvive« 
would  metamorphose  him, 
A  very  miserable  ass,  iudeed  1 


Scene  IV.]  the  hone\iioon.  il 

"  Mere  fullers'  earth,  to  bleach  their  spotted  credit ; 
-'  A  blotting  paper  to  drink  up  their  stains  1" 

./id.     True,  there  are  many  such. 

DiUce.     And  there  are  men, 
Wiiom  not  a  swelling  lip,  or  wrinkled  brow, 
Or  the  loud  rattle  of  a  woman's  tongue — 
Or  what's  more  hard  to  parry,  the  warm  close 
Of  lips,  that  from  the  inmost  heart  of  man 
riiicks  out  his  stern  resolves — can  move  one  jot 
From  the  determined  purpose  of  his  soul, 
Or  stir  an  inch  from  his  prerogative. — 
Ere  it  be  long,  you'll  dream  of  such  a  raaa 

Jul.     Where,  waking,  shall  I  see  him  ? 

DiiJce.     Look  on  me  1 
Come,  to  your  chamber  1 

Jul.     1  won't  be  confined  1 

DiiJx.     Won't  ! — Say  you  so  ? 

Jul.     Well,  then,  I  do  request 
You  won't  confine  me. 

Duke.     You'll  leave  me  ? 

Jid.     No  indeed  ! 
As  there  is  truth  in  language,  on  my  soul 
1  will  not  leave  you  ! 

Duke.     Y'ou've  deceived  me  once — 

Jid.     And,  therefore,  do  not  merit  to  be  trusted 
I  do  confess  it  : — but,  by  all  that's  sacred, 
Give  me  my  liberty,  and  I  will  be 
A  patient,  drudging,  most  obedient  wife  1 

Duke.     Yes  :  but  a  grumbling  one  ? 

Jid.     No  ;  on  my  honour, 
I  will  do  all  you  ask,  ere  you  have  said  it. 

Duke.     And  with  no  secret  murmur  of  your  spirit  ? 

Jul.     With  none,  believe  me  ! 

DitJce.     Have  a  care  ! 
For  if  1  catch  you  on  the  wing  again, 
I'll  clip  you  closer  than  a  garden  hawk. 
And  put  you  in  a  cage,  where  day-light  comes  not  ; 
Wiiere  you  may  fret  your  pride  against  the  bars. 
Until  your  heart  break.     (Kicking  at  the  doar.)     See  who's 
'  at  the  door  ! —  (She  goes  and  opens  it 


THE   HONFA'.MOOJ*.  [AcT  III. 

Enter  Lopez,  l.  d. 

My  neighbor  Lojez  ! — Welcome,  sir  ;  my  wife — 

( Indroducing  her. 
A  cliair  !     (To   Juliana. —  She  brings  a  chair  to  Lopez  and 
throws  it  down,  i..)  Your  pardon — you'll  excuse  lier, 
sir — 
A  little  awkward,  but  exceediiitr  willing. 
One  for  your  husband  ! — ( S/ic  brings  another  Chair,  and  is 
going  to  throw  it  do'W7i  as  before  ;  but  the  Duke  looking 
stead fasthf  at  her,  sh£ desists,  ami  places  it  gently  by  him.) 
Pray  be  seated,  neighbor  ! 
Now  you  may  serve  yourself. 

Jul.     I  tliank  you,  sir, 
I'd  rather  stand. 

Duke.     I'd  rather  you  should  sit. 

Jul.     If  you  will  have  it  so — 'Would  I  were  dead  ! 

(Aside. —  iS7;e  brings  a  chair,  and  sits  down,  r. 

Duke.     Though  now  I  think  again,  'tis  fit  you  stand, 
That  you  may  be  more  free  to  serve  our  guest. 

Jill.     Even  as  you  command  !  (Rises. 

Duke.     You  v/ill  eat  something?  (To  Lopez. 

Lopez.     Not  a  morsel,  thank  ye. 

Duke.     Then  you  will  drink  ? — A  glass  of  wine,  at  least ' 

Lopez,  Well,  I  am  warm  with  walking,  and  care  not  if 
I  do  taste  your  liquor. 

Duke.     You  have  some  wine,  wife  ? 

Jul.     I  must  e'en  submit  I  (Exit,  r. 

Duke.     This  visit,  sir,  is  kind  and  neighborly. 

Lopez.  I  came  to  ask  a  favor  of  you.  We  have  to-day 
a  sort  of  merry-making  on  the  green  hard  by — 'twere  *oo 
much  to  call  it  a  dance — and  as  you  are  a  stranger  here—  • 

Duke.     Your  patience  for  a  moment. 

Re-enter  Juliana  with  a  Horn  of  Liquor,  ii. 

Duke.  (Taking  it.)  What  have  we  here? 
Jul.     'Tis  wine — you  called  for  wine  ! 
Duke.     And  did  I  bid  you  bring  it  in  a  nut-shell  ? 
Lopez.     Nay,  there  is  plenty  ! 
Duke.     I  can't  suffer  it. 
You  must  excuse   me.      ( To  Lopez.)     When  friends  drinV 
with  us, 


SciCNE  IV.]  THE    HONEYMOON'.  43 

'Tis  usual,  love,  to  bring  it  in  a  jug, 

Or  else  they  may  suspect  we  grudge  our  liquor. 

////.     I  shall  remember.  \_Exit,  r. 

Lofez.     I  am  ashamed  to  give  so  much  trouble. 

Duke.     No  trouble  ;  she  must  learn  her  duty,  sir  ; 
I'm  only  sorry  you  should  be  kept  waiting. 
But  you  were  speaking — 

Lopez.  As  I  was  saying,  it  being  the  ,conclnsiou  of  our 
vintage,  we  have  assembled  the  lads  and  lasses  of  the  vil- 
lage— 

Re-enter  Juliaxa,  r. 

Duke.     Xow  we  shall  do  ! 
Why,  what  the  devil's  this  ? 

Jul.     Wine,  sir. 

Duke.     This  wine  ? — 'Tis  foul  as  ditch-water  I — 
Did  you  shake  the  cask  ? 

Jul.     What  shall  I  say  ?  {Aside.)  Yes,  sir. 

Duke.     You  did  ? 

■Jul.     I  did, 

Duke.     I  thought  so  ! 
Why,  do  you  think,  my  love,  that  wine  is  physic, 
That  must  be  shook  before  'tis  swallowed  ? — 
Come,  try  again  1 

M.     I'll  go  no  more  ! 

{^Puts  down  the  wine  on  the  ground. 

Duke.     You  won't  ? 

Jul.     I  won't.  \_Showing  the  Key. 

Duke.     You  won't  ? 
You  had  forgot  yourself,  my  love. 

Jul.     Well,  I  obey  1  [  Takes  up  the  wine,  and  exit,  r. 

Duke.     Was  ever  man  so  plagued  1 
"  You  have  a  wife,  no  doubt,  of  more  experience 
"  Who  would  not  by  her  awkwardness  disgrace 
"  Her  husband  thus  ?    This  'tis  to  marry 
"  An  inexperienced  girl !" 
I'm  ashamed  to  try  your  patience,  sir  ; 
But  women,  like  watches,  must  be  set 
W  tb  care  to  make  them  go  well. 

Enter  Juliana,  r. 
A.y  this  looks  well  I  {Pouring  it  out 


44  THE   HONEYMOON.  [AcT  III. 

Jul.     The  heavens  be  praised  ! 

Duke.     Come,  sir,  your  judgment  ? 

Lopez.  'Tis  excellent ! — But,  as  I  was  saying,  to-day  we 
have  some  country  pastimes  on  the  green. — Will  it  please 
you  both  to  join  our  simple  recreations  ? 

Duke.  We  will  attend  you.  Come,  renew  your  draught 
sir ! 

Lopez.  We  shall  expect  you  presently  ;  till  then,  good 
even,  sir  ! 

Duke.  Good  even,  neighbor.  (Exit,  Lopez,  l.  d.  j  Go  and 
make  you  ready. 

Jul..     I  take  no  pleasure  in  these  rural  sports. 

Duke.     Tlien  you  shall  go  to  please  your  husband.  Hold  ! 
I'll  have  no  glittering  gewgaws  stuck  about  you, 
To  stretch  the  gaping  eyes  of  idiot  wonder, 
And  make  men  stare  upon  a  piece  of  earth 
As  on  the  star-wrought  firmament — "  no  feathers 
"To  wave  as  streamers  to  your  vanity — 
"  Nor  cum'orous  silk,  that  with  its  rustling  sound 
"  IVlake  proud  the  ilesh  that  bears  it.'^     She's  adorned 
Amply,  that  in  her  husband's  eye  looks  lovely — 
The  truest  mirror  that  an  honest  wife 
Can  see  her  beauty  in  ! 

Jul.     I  shall  oliserve  sir. 

Duke.     I  should  like  to  see  you  in  the  dress 
I  last  presented  you. 

Jul.     The  blue  one,  sir  ? 

Duke.     No,  love,  the  wiiite. — Thus  modestly  attired, 
An  half-blown  rose  stuck  in  thy  braided  hair. 
With  no  more  diamonds  than  those  eyes  are  made  of, 
No  deeper  rul)ies  than  compose  thy  lips, 
Nor  pearls  more  precious  than  inhabit  tliem, 
With  the  pure  red  and  white,  which  tliat  same  hand 
Wiiich  l)lends  the  rainbow  mingles  in  thy  cheeks  : 
This  well  proportioned  form,  fthink  not  I  flatter,^ 
In  graceful  motion  to  iiarmoiiious  sounds. 
And  thy  free  tresses  dancing  in  the  wind  : — 
Tliou'lt  lix  as  nuich  observance,  as  chaste  dames 
C;!n  meet  without  a  l)lush.  \_E.ut  .Juliana,  door  injtat. 

I'll  ti'ust  her  with  these  bumpkins      There  uo coxcomb 
Sliall  buz  his  fulsome  praises  in  her  ear, 
And  swear  she  has  in  all  things,  save  myself, 


Scene  I.]  the  honevmoun.  45 

A  most  especial  taste,     No  meddling  gossip 

"  (Who,  having  claw'd  or  cuddled  into  bondage 

"  Tlie  thing  misnamed  a  husband,  privately 

"  Instructs  less  daring  spirits  to  revolt)" 

Shall,  from  the  fund  of  her  experience,  teach  her 

AVhen  lordly  man  can  best  be  mrde  a  fool  of. 

Yet  that  would  have  obedien-",  wives,  beware 

Of  meddling  woman's- kind  officious  care,  [Esit,  u 

END    OP  ACT  III. 


ACT    lY. 

Scene  I. — 2  he  Inn. 
Enter  Lamped  1st ;  and  Hostess  'ind,  r. 

Hostess.     Nay,  nay,  another  fortnight. 

Lam.     It  can't  be. 
Tiie  man's  as  well  as  I  am  : — have  some  mercy  ! — 
He  hath  been  here  almost  three  weeks  already. 

Hostess.     Well,  then,  a  week  ? 

Lam.     We  may  detain  him  a  week. 

Enter  Balthazar  behind  from  door  in  fiat,  r,  tn  his  Night 
gown  with  a  drawn  Sword. 

You  talk  now  like  a  reasonable  hostess, 

That  sometimes  has  a  reck'ning — with  her  conscience. 

Hostess.     He  still  believes  he  has  an  inward  bruise. 

Lam.     I  would  to  Heaven  he  had  1     Or  that  he'd  slipt 
His  shoulder  blade,  or  broke  a  leg  or  two, 
(Not  that  I  bear  his  person  any  malice) 
Or  Inx'd  an  arm,  or  even  sprain'd  his  ankle ! 

Hostess.     Ay,  broken  anything  except  his  neck. 

Lam.     However,  for  a  week  I'll  manage  him, 
Though  he  has  the  constitution  of  a  horse — 
A  farrier  should  prescribe  for  him  1 

Bid.     A  farrier  !  ^Asidc 

Lam.     To-morrow  we  pelobotomize  again  ; 
Next  day  my  U3w-invent*d  patent  draught :— 


46  THE   HONEYXfOOK.  [AcT  TV, 

Then  I  have  some  pills  prepared. 

On  Thirsday  we  throw  in  the  t)ark  ;  on  Friday  ? — 

Bal.  ( Coming  forward,  c.)  Weil,  sir,  on  Fi-idny  ? — 
what  on  Friday  ?  come, 
Proceed 

Lnm.     Discovered  ! 

Hostess.     Mercy,  noble  sir  !  \_T/iey  fall  on  their  knees. 

Lnm.     We  crave  yonr  mercy. 

Bal.     On  your  knees  ?  'tis  well  ! 
Pray,  for  your  time  is  short. 

Hostess.     Nay,  do  not  kill  us  1 

Bal.     You  have  been  tried,  condemned,  and  only  wait 
For  execution.     Which  shall  I  begin  with  ? 

Lam.     The  lady,  by  all  means,  sir  ! 

Bal.     Come,  prepare.  [  To  the  Hostess. 

Hostess.     Have  pity  on  the  weakness  of  my  sex  ! 

Bal.     Tell  me,  thou  quaking  mountain  of  gross  flesh. 
Tell  me,  and  in  a  breath,  how  many  poisons — 
If  you   attempt  it  ! — (To  Lampedo,   who  is  endonroring  to 
make  (iff',  i..) — you  have  cooked  up  for  me  ? 

Hostess.     None,  as  I  hope  for  meniy  I 

Bal.     Is  not  thy  wine  a  poison  ? 

Hostess.     No,  indeed,  sir  I 
'Tis  not,  I  own  of  the  first  quality  :  • 
But 

Bal.     What  ? 

Hostess.     I  always  give  short  measure,  sir. 
And  ease  my  conscience  that  way. 

Bal.     Ease  your  conscience  ! 
I'll  ease  your  conscience  for  you  1 

Hostess.     Mercy,  sir  1 

Bal.     Rise,  if  thou  canst,  and  hear  me. 

Hostess.     Your  commands,  sir  ? 

Bal.     If  in  live  minutes  all  things  are  prepared 
For  my  departure,  you  may  yet  survive. 

Hostess.     It  shall  be  done  in  less. 

Bal.     Away,  thou  lump-iish  !  \_E.dt  Hostess. 

Lam.     So,  now  comes  my  turn  ! — 'tis  all  over  with  nte  I — 
There's  dagger,  rope,  and  ratsbane  in  his  looks  ! 

Bal.     And  now,  thou  sketch  and  outline  of  a  man  I 
Thou  thing  that  hast  no  shadow  in  the  sun  1 
Tlion  eul  in  a  consumption,  eldest  born 


Scene  1.]  the  honeymoon.  47 

Of  Death  on  Famine  1     Thou  anatomy. 
01"  a  starved  pilchard  ! — 

Lam.  I  do  confess  my  leanness. — I  am  spare  I 
And  tiierej'ore  spare  me  ! 

Hal.     Why,  wouidst  thou  have  made  me 
A  thorouglifare  for  thy  whole  shop  to  pass  through  I 

Lam.     Man,  you  know,  must  live  1 

Bal.     Yes  :  he  must  die,  too. 

Lam.     For  my  patients'  sake  ! 

Bal.     I'll  send  you  to  the  major  part  of  them — 
The  window,  sir,  is  open  ; — come,  prepare — 

Lam.     Pray  consider  1 
I  may  hurt  some  one  in  the  street. 

Bal.     Why,  then,  I'll  rattle  thee  to  pieces  in  a  dice-box. 
Or  grind  thee  in  a  coffee-mill  to  powder  ; 
For  thou  must  sup  with  Pluto  : — So,  make  ready  1 
Whilst  J,  with  this  good  small-sword  for  a  lancet, 
Let  thy  starved  spirit  out — for  blood  thou  hast  none — 
And  nail  thee  to  the  wall,  where  thou  shalt  look 
Like  a  dried  beetle  with  a  pin  stuck  through  him. 

Lam.     Consider  my  poor  wife  1 

Bal.     Thy  wife  ! 

Lam.     My  wife,  sir  1 

Bal.     Hast  thou  dared  think  of  matrimony,  too  ? 
No  flesh  upon  thy  bones,  and  take  a  wife  I 

Lam.     I  took  a  wife,  because  I  wanted  flesh. 
1  have  a  wife  and  three  angelic  babes. 
Who,  by  those  looks  are  well  nigh  fatherless  ! 

Bal.     Well,  well  1     Your  wife  and  children  shall  plead  for 
you. 
Come,  come,  the  pills  I     Where  are  the  pills  ?     Produce 
them  ? 

LMm.     Here  is  the  box 

Bal.     Were  it  Pandora's,  and  each  single  pill 
Had  ten  diseases  in  it,  you  should  take  them. 

Lam.     What,  all  ? 

Bal.     Ay,  all  ;  and  quickly  too? — Come,  sir,  begin? 
(Lampedo  lakes  one.)  That's  well  : — another. 

Lam.     One's  a  dose  ! 

Bal.     Proceed,  sir  ! 

Lam.     What  will  become  of  me  ? 

Let  me  go  home,  and  set  ray  shop  to  rights, 


48  THE  HONEYMOON  [AcT  IV. 

Awi,  like  iniHiOrtal  Ca3sai',  die  wilii  decency  ! 

Bed.     Away  !     Aii<i  thank  thy  lucky  star  I  luive  not 
Betrayed  tiiee  iu  thy  own  luortar,  or  exposed  tijee 
For  a  lai-g'C  ,s"peciraeu  of  the  lizard  genus. 

La7n.     '"Would  1  wei'e  one — for  they  can  I'eed'oii  air  ! 

Bal.     Home,  sir  !     And  be  more  honest 

Lnm.     if  I  am  not, 
I'll  be  more  wise  at  least  ! 

\_Exeimt.  L.  Lampedo  1st,  Balthazar  threatning  him  2nd. 

Scene  II. — A  Wood.     A  bank  on  the  r.  2 rid.  e. 
Enter  Z.uiora,  in  IVoman^s  Apjmrel,  veiled,  r. 

Zfl7rt.     Now,  all  good  spirits  that  delight  to  prosper 
The  undertakings  of  chaste  love,  assist  me  ! 
Yonder  he  comes  :  I'll  rest  upon  this  bank. — 
If  I  can  move  his  curiosity. 
The  rest  may  follow. 

[  She  reclines  onthe  hank  pretending  to  sleep. 

Enter  Roi-ando,  l. 

RuL.     What,  hoa  ;  Eugenio 
Tie  is  so  little  apt  to  play  the  truant, 

\  fear  some  mischief  has  befallen  him.  \_Sees  Zamora. 

What  have  we  here  ? — A  woman  ! — By  this  light. 
Or  rather  by  this  darkness,  'tis  a  woman  I 
Doing  no  nnschief  only  dreaming  of  it  1 
i  t  is  tlie  stillest,  most  inviting  spot  I 
We  are  aloiie  1 — If,  without  waking  her, 
I  could  just  brush  the  fresh  dew  from  her  lips, 
As  the  lirst  blush  of  morn  salutes  the  rose — 
Hold,  hold,  llolando  !     Art  thou  not  forsworn, 
If  thou  but  touchcst  even  the  finger's  end 
Of  fickle  woman  ? — I  have  sworn  an  oath, 
That  female  Uesh  a-id  blood  should  ne'er  provoke  me  ; 
Tiiat  is,  in  towns  or  cities  :  I  remember 
lliere  was  a  special  clause, — or  should  have  been,— 
'i'liuching  a  woman  sleeping  in  a  wood  : 
For  tiiough  to  the  strict  letter  of  the  law 
We  l)ind  our  neighbours,  yet,  in  our  own  cause. 
We  give  libt^ral  and  a  large  construction 


Scene  IL]  the  honeymoox.  49 

To  its  free  spirit.     Tlierefore,  gentle  lady — 

i  She  stirs  as  ij   iivoiun'j, 
llusli  ! — She  prevents  nie.     Pardon,  gentle  fair  oni.-, 
That  1  liuve  broke  thus  rudely  on  your  slumbers  ! 
But,  for  the  interruption  I  have  eaused, 
Yon  see  me  ready  as  a  gentleman, 
To  make  you  all  amends. 

'L<tm.     To  u  stranger  (coming  down  on  K.J 
You  ofl'er  fairly,  sir  ;  but  from  a  stranger — 

Rol.     What  shall  1  say  ? — IS'ot  so  ;  you  are  no 
Stranger — 

Z(im.     Do  you  then  know  me  ? — Heaven  forbid  !  [^Asich 

Rol.     Too  well. 

Zam.     How,  sir  ? 

Rol.     I've  known  you,  lady,  'bove  a  twelvemonth, 
And,  from  report,  loved  you  an  age  before  1 
Why,  is  it  possible  you  never  heard 
Of  my  sad  passion  ? 

Zam.     Kever. 

Rol.     Y'ou  amaze  me  I 

Zavi.     What  can  he  mean  ?  \_Asidt, 

Rol.       The  sonnets  I  have  written  to  your  beauty 
Have  kept  a  paper-mill  in  full  enijjloy  : 
And  then  the  letters  I  have  given  by  dozens 
Unto  your  chambermaid  ! — But  I  begin, 
By  this  unlooked-for  strangeness  you  put  on, 
Almost  to  think  she  ne'er  delivered  them, 

Zam.     Indeed  she  never  did — He  does  but  jest.     [Aside. 
I'll  try.  {Aside.)  Perhaps  you  misdirected  them  ? 
What  superscription  did  you  put  upon  them  ? 

Rol.     What  superscription  ? — Koue  1 

Zam.     None  ! 

Rol.     Not  a  tittle  ! 
Think  ye,  fair  lady,  I  have  no  discretion  ? 
I  left  a  blank,  that,  should  they  be  mislaid, 
Or  lost,  you  know — 

Zavi.     And  in  your  sonnets,  sir, 
What  title  was  I  honoured  by  ? 

Rvl.     An  hundred  I — 
All  but  your  ri-'al  one. 

Zam. '  What  is  that?  [Quidly 

Rid.      She  has  me  1 


50  THE    HONEYMOON.  [A CI  IV. 

Faith,  lady,  you  have  run  me  to  a  stand. 

i  know  yon  not — never  before  beheld  you — 

^'ct  Vm  m  love  with  you  extempore  •, 

And  though,  by  a  treniendons  oath,  I'm  bound 

Ni'ver  to  hold  communion  with  your  sex, 

Vet  has  yonr  beauty,  and  your  modesty — 

C'ome,  let  me  see  your  face — 

Z'?n.     Nay  ;  that  would  prove 
1  luul  no  modesty,  perhaps  nor  beauty.— 
Besides,  I  too  have  taken  a  rash  oath, 
jS'ever  to  love  but  one  man. 

Bol.     At  a  time  ? 

Zr:7ii.     One  at  all  times. 

lioL     You're  right  : — I  am  the  man. 

Za7n.     You  are,  indeed,  sir  ! 

Rol.     How  ?  Now  you  are  jesting  1 

Zfl?«.     No,  on  my  soul ! — 1  have  sent  up  to  Heaven 
A  sacred  and  irrevocable  vow  ; 
And  if,  as  some  believe,  there  does  exist 
A  spirit  in  the  waving  of  the  woods, 
Life  in  tlie  leaping  torrent,  in  the  hills 
And  seated  rocks  a  contemplating  soul 
Brooding  on  all  things  round  them,  to  all  nature 
I  here  renew  the  solemn  covenant — 
Never  to  love  but  you  ! 

Bol.     And  who  are  you  ! 

Zam.     In  birth  and  breeding,  sir,  a  gentlewoman  : 
And,  but  I  know  the  high  pitch  of  your  mind 
From  such  low  thoughts  maintains  a  towering  distance, 
1  would  add,  rich  ;  yet  is  it  no  misfortune. — 
Virtnous,  I  will  say  boldly.     Of  my  shape. 
Your  ('yes  are  your  informers.     For  my  face, 
1  cannot  think  of  that  so  very  meanly, 
For  you  have  often  praised  it. 

Rol.     I  ! — Unveil,  then, 
Tliat  1  may  jiraise  it  once  again. 

Ente7-  VOLANTR,  L. 

Zran.    Not  now  sir, 
We  are  observed  {Crosses,  li 

l{ol   (  Seeing  Volante.)  Confusion! — This  she-devil — 
Tis  time,  then,  to  redeem  my  character — 


Scene  II.]  tbe  honeymoon.  bX 

I  tfll  you,  lady,  you  must  be  mistaken, 

I  toll  you,  'tis  not  I.  (Aloud)  Here,  ou  tiiis  spot.      (AsuU.) 

Zam.  I  humbly  beg  your  pardon. 

Rol.  Well,  you  have  it ; — 
R(' member, — 

Zam.  Trust  me  I  [Exit,  l. 

Eol.  A  most  strange  adventure  !  Pray,  lady,  do  you 
know  who  that  importunate  woman  is  that  just  left  us  ? 

Vol.  No,  Signor. 

Rol.  (They  walk  by  each  other,  he  whistling,  and  she  hum- 
ming a  tune.)  Have  you  any  business  with  me  ? 

Vol.  I  wanted  to  see  you,  that's  all.  They  tell  me  you 
are  the  valiant  captain  that  has  turned  woman-hater,  as 
the  boy  left  off  eating  nuts,  because  he  met  with  a  sour 
one. 

Rol.  Would  I  were  in  a  free-mason's  lodge  ! 

Vol.  Why  there  ? 

Rcl.  They  never  admit  women. 

Vol.  It  must  be  a  dull  place. 

Rol.  Exceedingly  quiet. — How  shall  I  shake  off  this  gad- 
fly 1 — Did  you  ever  see  a  man  mad  I 

Vol.  Never. 

Rol.  I  shall  be  mad  presently. 

Vol.  I  hope  it  won't  be  long  first.  I  can  wait  an  hour 
or  so. 

Rol.  I  tell  you,  I  shall  be  mad  ! 

Vol.  Will  it  be  of  the  merry  sort  ? 

Rol.  Stark,  staring,  maliciously,  mischieviously  mad  1 

Vol.  Nay,  then  I  can't  think  of  leaving  you,  for  you'll 
want  a  keeper. 

Rd.  1  would  thou  hadst  one  I  If  I  were  valiant,  now, 
to  beat  a  woman — 

Vol.  Well!  Why  don't  you  begin?  Pshaw!  you  have  none 
of  the  right  symptoms.  You  don't  stare  with  your  eyes,  nor 
foam  at  the  mouth.  Mad,  indeed  !  You're  as  much  in  your 
sober  senses  as  I  am. 

Rol.  Then  I  am  mad  incurably  !     Will  you  go  forward  ? 

Vol.  No. 

Rol.  Backward  ? 

Vol.  No. 

Ral.  Will  you  stay  where  you  ace  ? 


52  THE    HONEYMOOX.  [AcT  IT 

Vnl.  No  Rank  and  file,  captain  :  I  niean  to  be  one  of 
yoar  company 

E.oi.  Impossible  !  You're  not  tall  euougn  tor  anythuig 
but,  a  cirunuuer  :  and  then  the  noise  ot  your  tong-ue  woui'.i 
drown  the  stoutest  sheep-skin  in  Christendom. 

Vol.  Can  you  find  no  employment  for  me  ? 

Rol.  No :  you  are  fit  for  nothing  but  to  beat  hemp  in  a 
workhouse,  to  the  tuneful  accompammeut  of  a  beadle's 
whip. 

Vol.  I  would  be  content  to  be  so  employed,  if  I  was 
dure  you  would  reap  the  full  benefit  of  my  labour. 

Rol.  Nay,  then,  I'll  go  to  work  another  way  with  you. — 
What,  hoa,  Eugenio  1     Sergeant  !     Corporal  ! 

Vol.  Nay  ,  tlien,  'tis  time  to  scamper  :  he's  bringing  his 
whole  regiment  on  me  1  (Exit  Volante,  r.,  liolando,  h. 

Scene  III. — A  Rural  Scent. 

Music. — A  Dance  of  Rustics.     Lopez  seeing  the  Ddke  aiui 
Juliana  approach. 

Lop.  Hold  1     Our  new  guests. 

Enter  the  Duke  aiid  Juliana,  b. 

Neighbours,  you  are  kindly  welcome. 

Wil't  please  you  to  join  the  dance,  or  be  mere  gazers  ? 

Duke.  I  am  for  motion,  if  this  lady  here 
W  ould  trip  it  with  me. 

Lop.  My,  wife,  sir — at  your  service  ; 
If  it  be  no  offence,  I'll  take  a  turn  with  your's. 

Du,ke.  By  all  means.     Lady,  by  your  leave — 

{^Scdutes  Lopez's  wife. 

Lop.  A  good  example^ 

[Attempts  to  salute  Juliana  ; — she  boxes  his  ears. 

Jul.  Badly  followed,  sir  1 

I^p.  Zounds  1     What  a  tingler  j 

Dwke.  Are  you  not  ashamed  ? 
My  wife  is  young,  f.ir  ;  she'll  know  better  soon 
Tiian  to  return  a  courtesy  so  tartly  : — 
Your's  has  oeen  better  tutored  I  (Salutes  her. 

Lop.  Tutored  1     Zcmuls  ! — 
1  only  meant  to  aj)c  your  husband,  lady  1 
He  kisses  where  he  pleases. 


Scene  I.]  the  HOXE-i^toox.  53 

Jul.  So  do  I,  sir  ; 
Not  where  I  have  no  pleasure. 

JHke.  Excellent  !  _  'Aside. 

Jul.  My  lips  are  not  my  own.     My  hand  is  free,  sir. 
Lop.  Free  !     I'll  be  s'vvovn  it  is  1 
Jul.  WiU't  pletise  you  take  it  I 
Duke.  Excuse  her  rustic  breeding  :  she  is  young ; 
But  you  will  find  her  nimble  in  the  dance. 

Lap.  Come,  then,  let's  have  a  stirring  roundelay. 

yMiisic. —  TImj  dance,  Juliana  at  first  perversely,  but  af' 
tenoards  entering  into  the  spirit  of  it;  and  then  go 
off'  icith  their  partners,  r.  v.  e. 

END    OF    ACT   IV. 


ACT    V. 

Scene  I. —  The  Cottage.      Two  Chairs. 

Juliana   sitting  at   her   needle;   tke  Duke   steals  in   behiid, 
through  D.  in  flat. 

Duke.  Come,  no  more  work  to-night  ! — (Sits  by  her.)  It 
is  the  last 
That  we  shall  spend  beneath  this  humble  roof  : 
Our  ileetiug  mouth  of  trial  being  past. 
To-morrow  you  are  free. 

/({/.  ^'ay,  'now  you  mock  me, 
And  turn  my  thoughts  upon  my  former  follies. 
You  know,  that,  to  be  mistress  of  the  world, 
I  would  Dot  leave  you. 

Duke.  j\o  I 

Jul.  No,  ou  my  honour. 

Duke.     I  think  you  like  me  better  than  you  did  !-— 
And  yet  'tis  natural  :  come,  come,  be  honest  ; 
You  have  a  sort  of  hankering, — no  w  ild  wish, 
Our  vehement  desire,  yet  a  slight  longing, 
A  simple  preference — if  you  had  your  choice,— 
To  be  a  duchess,  rather  than  the  wife 
Of  a  low  peasant? 

"  Jul    No,  indeed  you  wroug  me  ? 


54  THE    HONEYMOON.  [ACT  V. 

"  Diike.  I  marked  you  closely  at  the  palace,  wife 
*'  Tn  the  fall  tempest  of  your  speech,  your  eye 
"  Would  g-lanee  to  take  the  room's  dunensions, 
"  And  pause  upon  each  ornament  ;  and  then 
"  There  would  break  from  you  a  half-smothered  sipjh 
"  Which  spoke  distinctly — '  These  should  have  been  mine  ;' 
"  And,  therefore,  though  with  a  well  tempered  spirit, 
"  You  have  some  secret  swellings  of  the  heart 
"  When  these  things  rise  to  your  imagination." 

Jul,  No,  indeed  :  sometimes  in  my  dreams,  I  own, — 
You  know  we  cannot  help  our  dreams  1 — 

Buke.  What  then  ! 

Jul,  Why,  I  confess,  that  sometimes,  in  my  dreams, 
A  noble  house  and  splendid  equipage, 
Diamonds  and  pearls,  and  gilded  furniture, 
Will  glitter,  like  an  empty  pageant,  by  me  ; 
And  then  I  am  apt  to  rise  a  little  feverish. 
But  never  do  my  sober  waking  thouglits,— 
As  I'm  a  woman  worthy  of  belief, — 
Wander  to  such  forbidden  vanities. 
Yet,  after  all  it  was  a  scurvy  trick — 
Your  palace  and  your  pictures,  and  your  plate  ; 
Your  tine  plantations,  your  delightful  gardens, 
Tliat  were  a  second  Paradise — for  fools 
And  then  your  grotto,  so  divinely  cool  ; 
Your  Gothic  summer-house,  and  Roman  temple 
'Twould  puzzle  much  an  antiquarian 
To  find  out  their  remains. 

Duke.  No  more  of  that  1 

Jul.  You  had  a  dozen  spacious  vineyards,  too  ; 
Alas  !     The  grapes  are  sour  ; — and,  above  all. 
The  Barbary  courser  that  was  breaking  for  me. 

Duke.  Nay,  you  shall  ride  him  yet. 

Jid.  Indeed  1 

Duke.  Believe  me. 
We  must  forget  these  things. 

Jul.  They  arc  forgot  ; 
And,  by  tiiis  kiss,  we'll  think  of  them  no  more, 
But  when  we  want  a  theme  to  make  us  merry. 

Duke.  It  was  an  honest  one,  and  spoke  thy  soul  j 
And  by  the  fresh  lip  and  unsullied  breath. 
Which  joined  to  give  it  eweetnes*-*- 


Scene  I.]  the  honeymoon.  55 

Eiiier  Balthazar,  l. 

Jul.     (Crosses,  c.)  How!     My  father! 

Duke.     Slgiiior  Balthazar  !     You  are  welcome,  sir. 
To  our  poor  habitation. 

Bnl.     Welcome  1     Yillaiu, 
1  come  to  call  your  dukeship  to  account, 
And  to  reclaim  my  daughter. 

Dwke.     {Aside)  You  will  find  her 
Reclaimed  already,  or  I  have  lost  my  pains. 

Bal.     Let  me  come  at  him  ! 

Jvl.     Patience,  my  dear  father  ! 

Duke.     Xay,  give  him  room.     Put  up  your  weapon,  sir — 
'Tis  the  worst  argument  a  man  can  use. 
So  let  it  be  the  last  !     As  for  your  daughter. 
She  passes  by  another  title  here, 
In  which  your  whole  authority  is  sunk — 
My  lawful  wife  ! 

Bed.     Lawful  ! — His  lawful  wife  ! 
I  shall  go  mad  !     Did  not  you  basely  steal  her, 
Under  a  vile  pretence  ? 

Duke.     What  I  have  done 
I'll  answer  to  the  law. 
Of  what  do  you  complain  ? 

Bal.     Why.  are  you  not 
A  most  notorious,  self-confessed  imposter  ? 

Duke.     True  !     I  am  somewhat  dwindled  from  the  state 
In  which  you  lately  knew  me  ;  nor  alone 
Should  my  exceeding  change  provoke  your  wonder-^ 
You'll  find  your  daughter  is  not  what  she  was, 

Bal.     How,  Juliana  ? 

Jul.     'Tis,  indeed,  most  true. 
1  left  you,  sir,  a  froward  foolish  girl. 
Full  of  capricious  thoughts  and  fiery  spirits, 
Which,  without  judgment,  I  would  vent  on  all 
But  I  have  learned  this  truth  indelibly. — 
That  modesty,  in  deed,  in  word,  and  thought, 
Is  the  prime  grace  of  woman  ;  and  with  that. 
More  than  by  frowning  looks  and  saucy  speechess, 
She  may  persuade  the  man  that  rightly  loves  her, 
Whom  she  was  ne'er  intended  to  command. 

Bnl.     Amazement  !     Why,  this  metamorphosis 


56  fHK    I50XEYMOON.  [A CI    V. 

Exceeds   his  own  ! —  Whnt  spells,  what  cf  nuing  witchcraft 
Has  he  employed  ? 

Jul.     None  :  he  has  simply  tnnght  r.ie 
To  look  into  myself :   his  })0\veriiil  riiet'rie 
Hath  with  strong  inlhieuce  inqircsj^ed  my  heart, 
And  made  me  see  at  length  t!ie  thing  1  have  been, 
And  what  I  am,  sir. 

JJal.     Are  yon  then  content 
To  live  with  him  ? 

Jul.     Content  V     1  am  most  happy  ! 

Bal.     Can  you  forget  your  crying  \vrongs? 

Jul.     Not  quite,  sir  ; 
They  sometimes  serve  to  make  us  merry  with. 

Bal.     How  like  a  villain  he  abiised  your  father  ? 

Jul.     You  will  forgive  Isim  that,  for  my  s;d^*'. 

Bal.     Never  ! 

Duke.     Why,  then  'tis  jilain  you  seek  your  own  revenge, 
And  net  your  daughter's  happiness. 

Bal.     No  matter. 
I  charge  you,  on  your  duty  as  my  daughter, 
Follow  me  ! 

Duke.     On  a  wife's  obedience, 
I  charge  you,  stir  not  ! 

Jul.     You,  sir,  are  my  father  ; 
At  the  bare  mention  of  tliat  liallowcd  niune, 
A  thousand  recollections  rise  within  me, 
To  witness  yon  have  ever  been  u  kind  one  : 
This  is  my  husband,  sir  ! 

Bill.      Thy  husband  ;  well — 

.Jul.     'Tis  fruitless  now  to  think  upon  the  means 
He  used — I  am  irrevocal)ly  his  : 
And  when  he  plue'd  me  fronm  my  parent  tree, 
To  graft  me  on  himself,  he  gathered  with  rae 
JMy  love,  my  duty,  my  obedience  ; 
And,  by  adoi)tion,  I  urn  bound  as  strictly 
To  do  his  reasonable  l)idding  now, 
As  once  to  follow  youra. 

Duke.     Most  excellent  !  [Asbh. 

Bal.     Yet  1  will  be  revenged  I 

Duke      You  vvouhl  have  justice  ?  [To  Balth-.tzar, 

Bal.     I  will. 

Du,]<z.     Then  forthwith  meet  me  at  the  duke's.  [C/wf«,  i.. 


Scene  II.]  the  HoxErwooN  67 

Bnl.     What  pledge  have  I  for  your  appearance  tlierc  ? 

Vuhc     Your  daughttr,  sh". — Nay,  go,  my  Juliana  1 
'Ti.s  my  request : — withiu  an  liour  at  farthest, 
I  shall  expect  to  see  you  at  the  palace. 

Bed.     Come,  Juliana. — You  shall  had  me  there,  sir. 

Duke.     Look  not  thus  sad  at  partuig,  Juliana  ; 
All  will  run  smooth  yet. 

BaL     Come  ! 

Jul.     Heaven  grant  it  may  ! 

Duke.     The  duke  shall  right  us  all,  without  delay. 

(Exeunt  BaUluizar  and  Juliana,  l.,  Duke,  R. 

Scene  II. — A  Wood. 
Enter  Yolante,  and  four  of  the  Count's  Servants,  vuisked,  l. 

Vol.     That's  he  stealing  down  the  pathway  yonder. 
Put  on  your  vizors — and  remember,  not  a  word  ! 

(  Tliey  retire,  L  3<2  B. 

Enter  Rolando,  B. 

Now  I  shall  be  even  with  your  hemp-beating.  (Exit,  u 

RoL     Here  am  I  come  to  be  a  woman's  toy, 
And,  spit(!  of  sober  reason,  play  the  fool. — 
'Tis  a  most  grievous  thing,  that  a  man's  blood 
Will  ever  thwart  his  noble  resolution, 
And  make  him  deaf  to  other  argument 
Than  the  quick  beating  of  his  pulse.        (They  come  forward 

and  surround  him.)     Hey-day  ! 
Why,  what  are  these  ?     If  it  be  no  offence, 
May  I  inquire  your  business  ? 

(  They  hold  a  pistol  to  each  side  of  his  head. 
Now  I  can  guess  it.     Pray,  reserve  your  fire  ! — 

(  They  proceed  to  bind  him. 
What  can  this  mean  ! — Mute,  gentlemen — all  mute  ? 
Pray,  were  ye  born  of  woman  ? — Still  ye  are  mute  ! 
Why,  then  perhaps  you  mean  to  strangle  me. 

(  They  bind  him  to  a  Tree,  i..  v.  E.,  and  go  off. 
How  !     Gone  ?     AVIiy  what  the  devil  can  this  mean  ? 
It  is  the  oddest  cud  to  an  amour  1 — 


58  THE   HONEYMOON.  [AcT   V. 

Enter  Voiante,  and  three  other   Women. 

Vol.     This  is  the  gentleman  we're  looking  for. 

Rol.     Looking  for  me  ?     You  are  mistaken,  ladies  : 
What  can  you  want  with  such  a  man  as  I  am  ? 
I  am  poor,  ladies,  miserably  poor  ; — 
I  am  old  too,  though  I  look  young  ;  quite  old  ; 
The  ruins  of  a  man.     Nay,  come  not  near  me  I 
I  would  for  you  I  were  a  porcupine, 
And  every  quill  a  death  ! 

Vol.  By  ray  faith,  he  rails  valiantly,  and  has  a  valiant 
swoi'd  too,  if  he  could  draw  it  !  Was  ever  poor  gcntlcmuu 
so  near  a  rope  without  being  able  to  hang  himself  I 

Rol.     I  could  bear  to  be  bound  in  every  limb, 
So  ye  were  tongue-tied. — 
That  I  could  cast  out  devils  to  torment  you  ! — 
Though  ye  would  be  a  match  for  a  wliole  legion. 

Vol.     Come,  come.  [They  pinch  and  tidichini 

Rol.     iS'ay,  ladies,  have  some  mercy  ;  drive  me  not 
To  desperation  : — though,  like  a  bear, 
Pm  fixed  to  the  stake,  and  must  endure  the  baiting. 

l^They  mcilce  a  circle,  and  dance  ronnd  him.  Rolando,, 
after  repeated  struggles,  disengages  his  risht  arm, 
ivith  which  Ive  draws  his  sword,  and  cuts  the  mfps  that 
hind  him. 

Vol.  The  bear  is  breaking  his  chain.  'Tis  tinift  to  run 
then. 

[  jTAe  Women  run  ojf,  l.,  fie  extricates  himself  a'u.d  fomes 
forward. 

Rol.  So,  they  are  gone  1  What  a  damnable  condinoii  1 
ara  in  !  The  devils,  that  Avorried  St.  Anthony,  were  a  J^aiiu! 
set  to  these  I  My  blood  boils  1  liy  all  that's  misehiev«-Ms, 
I'll  carbonado  the  first  woman  I  meet  1  If  I  do  not,  «•  (ly 
I'll  marry  her.     Here's  one  already  ! 

Enter  Zamora,  veiled,  r 

Zam.     I've  kept  my  word,  sir. 

Rol.     So  much  the  worse  I     For  I  must  keep  my  oatU 
Are  you  prejiared  to  die  ? 

Zam.     Not  by  your  hand. — 
I  hardly  think,  when  you  have  seen  my  face, 
You'll  be  my  executioner. 


Scene  II,]  the  honeymoon.  69 

Rol    Thy  face  ! 
Wliat,  are  you  liaiulsonie  ? — Don't  depend  on  that  I 
If  those  rosy  fingers,  like  Aurora's 
Lifting-  the  veil  from  day,  should  usher  forth 
Twin  sparkling  stars,  to  light  men  to  their  ruin  ; 
Balm-breathing  lips,  to  seal  destruction  on  ; 
An  alabjster  forehead,  hung  with  locks 
Tiiat  gliitter  like  Hyperiou's  ;  and  a  cheek 
Where  the  live  crimson  steals  upon  the  white, 
You  have  no  hope  of  mercy  ! 

Zani      (  Unveiling)  Now,  then,  strike  1 

Rol.     Eugenio  ? 

Zam.     Your  poor  boy,  sir  1 

Eol.     How,  a  woman  ? 
A  real  woman  ? 
What  a  dull  ass  have  I  been  !     Nay,  'tis  so. 

Zam.     You  see  the  sister  of  that  scoi'nful  lady, 
Who,  with  such  fixed  disdain,  refused  your  love, 
Which,  like  an  arrow  failing  of  its  aim, 
Glancing  from  her  impenetrable  heart, 
Struck  deep  in  mine  :  in  a  romantic  hour, 
Unknown  to  all,  I  left  my  father's  house. 
And  followed  you  to  the  wars. — What  has  since  happened 
1 1  better  may  become  you  to  remember 
Tiian  me  to  utter. 

liol.     I  am  caught  at  last ! 
Caught  by  a  woman,  excellently  caught. 
Hampered  beyond  redemption  ! — Why,  thou  witch  ! 
Tiiat,  in  a  brace  of  minutes,  hast  produced 
A  greater  revolution  in  my  soul 

Thau  thy  whole  sex  could  compass  !     Thou  enchantress, 
Prepare  I     For  I  must  kill  thee  certaiuly  ! — 

[  Throws  away  his  sword. 
But  it  shall  be  with  kindness. — My  poor  boy  1 

[  They  emir^ce, 

I'll  marry  thee  to-night : Yet  have  a  care  ! — 

For  I  shall  love  thee  most  unmercifully. 

Zavi.     And  as  a  wife  should  you  grow  weary  of  me 
I'll  be  your  page  again. 

Bol.     We'ino  your  father  1 

Zam.     Alas  I     I  fear  I  have  offended  him 
Beyond  the  reach  of  mrdon. 


60  THE   HOMEYMOON.  [AcT  V. 

Rol.     Think  not  so  1 
In  the  full  Hood  of  joy  at  your  returu, 
He'll  drown  his  anger,  and  absolving  tears 
Shall  warmly  welcome  his  poor  wanderer  home. 
^Vhdt  will  they  say  to  me  ?     Why,  they  may  say, 
And  truly,  that  I  made  a  silly  vow, 
But  was  not  quite  so  foolish  as  to  keep  it.  \_Exeunt,  u 

Scene  III, —  The  Duke^s   Palaa. 

Enter   Balthazar  and  Juliana,  the  Count  aiul  Yolante, 
preceded  hy  Pedro,  r. 

Bal.     You'll  tell  his  highness,  I  am  waiting  for  him. 

Pdd.     What  name  ? 

Bal.     No  matter  ;  tell  him  an  old  man, 
Who  has  been  basely  plundered  of  his  child, 
And  has  performed  a  weary  pilgrimage 
In  search  of  justice,  hopes  to  find  it  here. 

Fed.     I  will  deliver  this.  {Exit  Pidro,  l.  u  e. 

Bal.     And  he  shall  right  me  ; 
Or  I  will  make  his  dukedom  ring  so  loud 
With  my  great  wrongs,  that — 

Jul.    Pray,  be  patient,  sir. 

Bal.     Where  is  your  husband  ? 

Jnl.     He  will  come,  no  doubt. 

Count.     I'll  pawn  my  life  for  his  appearance  quickly  I 

Enter  Pedro,  l.  u.  e. 

Bal.     What  news,  sir  ? 

Ped.     The  duke  will  see  you  presently. 

Bal.     'Tis  well  ! 
Has  there  been  a  man  here  to  seek  him  lately  ? 

Ped.     None,  sir. 

Bal.     A  tall,  well-looking  man  enough, 
Though  a  rank  knave,  dress'd  in  a  peasant's  garb  ? 

Ped.     There  has  been  no  such  person. 

Bal.     No,  nor  will  be  I 
It  was  a  trick  to  steal  off  quietly, 
And  get  the  start  of  justice,     lie  has  reach'd, 
I^^re  this,  the  nearest  sea-port,  or  inhabits 
One  of  his  air-built  castles. 

(Trumj)ets  and  Kdtle- Drums,  l.  u.  e. 


Scene  III.]  the  honetmoow.  61 

Fed.     Stand  aside  ! 

Enter  the   Duke,  s^iperbly  dressed,  preceded  by  Jaque; 
follmccd  by  Aiieiulants,  and  six  Ladies. 

Duke.     Now,  sir,  your  busiuess  with  me  ? 

Bui.     How  ? 

Jid.     Amazement  ! 

Duke.     I  hear  you  would  have  audience. 

Jaq.     Exactly  ray  manner  I 

Bed.     Of  the  duke,  sir  ! 

Didic,     I  am  the  duke. 

Bal.     The  jest  is  somewhat  stale,  sir. 

Duke.     You'll  find  it  true. 

Bal.     Indeed  1 

Jaq.     Nobody  doubted  my  authority. 

Jid.     Be  still,  my  heart  !  [^Aside. 

Bal.     I  think  you  would  not  trifle  with  me  now  ? — 

Duke.     I  am  the  duke  Aranza. 

Count.     'Tis  e'en  so.  [To  Balthazar. 

Duke.     And,  what's  my  greater  pride,  this  lady's  hus- 
band ; 

[  Crosses  to  Juliana,  takes  her  hand,  and  leads  her  L.  o. 
Whom,  having  honestly  redeem'd  my  pledge, 
[  thus  take  back  again.     You  now  must  see 
The  drift  of  what  I  have  been  lately  acting, 
And  what  I  am.     And  though,  being  a  woman 
Giddy  with  youth  and  unrestrained  fancy. 
The  domineering  spirit  of  her  sex 
I  have  rebuked  too  sharply  ;  yet  'twas  done, 
As  skilful  surgeons  cut  beyond  the  wound, 
To  make  the  cure  complete. 

Bal.     You  have  done  most  wisely. 
And  all  my  anger  dies  in  speechless  wonder. 

Jaq.     So  does  all  my  greatness  ! 

Duke.     What  says  ray  Juliana  ? 

Jid.     I  am  lost,  too, 
lu  admiration,  sir  ;  my  fearful  thoughts 
Rise,  on  a  tremljling  wing,  to  that  rash  height 
Whence,  growing  di/.zv  once,  1  fell  to  earth. 
V(it  since  your  goodiie^*?,  for  the  second  time. 
Will  lift  me.  tlioiigii  \iuwort!iy,  to  that  jntch 
Of  greatness,  there  to  hold  a  constant  flight. 


63  THE    HONEYMOON.  [ACT  V. 

I  will  endeavor  so  to  bear  myself, 
That  in  the  woi'ld's  eye,  and  my  friends'  observance — 
And,  what's  far  dearer,  your  most  precious  judgment — 
I  may  not  shame  your  dukedom. 

Duke.     Bravely  spoken  I 
Why,  now  you  shall  have  rank  and  equipage —  i 

Servants,  for  you  can  now  command  yourself —  j 

Glorious  apparel,  not  to  swell  your  pride,  I 

But  to  give  lustre  to  your  modesty.  j 

All  pleasures,  all  delights,  that  noble  dames  i 

Warm  their  chaste  fancies  with,  in  full  abundance 
Shall  flow  upon  you  ;  and  it  shall  go  hard 
But  you  shall  ride  the  Barbary  courser  too. — 
Count,  you  have  kept  my  secret,  and  I  thank  you. 

Count.     Your  grace  has  reason  ;  for,  in  keeping  that, 
I  well  nigh  lost  my  mistress.     On  your  promise, 
I  now  may  claim  her,  sir.  \_To  Balthazar, 

Bal.     What  says  my  girl  ?  . 

Vol.    Well,  since  my  time  is  come,  sir — 

Bal.    Take  her,  then. 

Duke.     But  who  comes  yonder  ? 

Count.    'Sdeath  1     Why,  'tis  Rolando. 

Duke.     But  that  there  hangs  a  woman  on  his  arm, 
I'd  swear  'twas  he  ! 

Vol.     Nay,  'tis  the  gentleman. 

Duke.     Then  have  the  poles  met  I 

Vol.  Oh,  no,  only  two  of  the  planets  have  jostled  each 
other.     Veims  has  had  too  much  attraction  for  Mars. 

Enter  h.  Rolando  with  Zamoka,  veiled.      (All  laugh.) 

Count.     Why,  captain  I 

Duke.     Signior  Rolando  ! 

Rol.     (After  they  have  laughed  some  time.)     Nay,  'tis  a 
woman  1 
And  one  that  has  a  soul  too,  I'll  be  bound  for't. 

Vol.  He  must  be  condemned  to  her  for  some  offence  as 
a  truant  horse  is  tied  to  a  log,  or  a  great  school-boy  carries 
his  own  rod  to  the  place  of  execution.  (All  laugh.) 

Rol.     Laugh  till  your  lungs  crack,  'tis  a  woman  still. 

Count.     I'll  not  believe  it  till  I  see  her  face. 

Vol.     It  i.s  some  boy,  dreS&M  up  to  cozen  us  1 

Rol.     'Twus  u  boy  dress'd  up  to  cozen  me  1 


THE    HONEYMOON.  6S 

Suffice  it,  sirs,  that  being  well  convinctfv? — 

In  what  I  lately  was  a  stubborn  sceptic — 

That  women  may  be  reasonable  creatures  ; 

And  finding  that  your  grace,  in  one  fair  iustance, 

Has  wrought  a  wondrous  reformation  in  them, 

I  am  resolved  to  marry — ('i-hey  all  laugh) — for  'tis  odds 

(Cur  joint  endeavors  lab'ring  to  that  endj 

That,  in  another  century  or  two, 

Tiiey  may  become  endurable.     What  say  you  ? 

(  To  the  Duke.)    Have  I  your  free  consent  ? 

Duke.     Most  certainly. 

Rol.     Yours,  sir ?  [To  the  Count. 

Count.     Most  readily. 

Rol.     And  yours  ?  [To  BaUliazar. 

Bal.     Most  heartily. 

Jaq.     He  does  not  ask  mine  ! 

Rol    Add  but  your  blessing,  sir,  and  we  are  happy  ! — 
What  think  you  of  my  page  ? — 

\_Zamora  unveils  and  kneels  to  Balthazar 

Vol.     How  ! 

Bal.     Zamora  ! 

Zam.     You  daughter,  sir  ;  who,  tremblnig  at  your  feet — 

(Crosses  to  Balthazar. 

Bal.     Come  to  my  heart ! — 
You  knew  how  deeply  you  were  rooted  theje, 
Or  scarce  had  ventured  such  a  frolic. 

Zam     That,  sir, 
Should  have  prevented  me  ! 

Bal.     There  ;  she  is  yours,  sir, — 
If  you  are  still  determined 

Rol.     Fix'd  as  fate  ! 
Nor  in  so  doing  do  I  change  my  mind  ; 
I  swore  to  wed  no  woman — she's  an  angel. 

Vol.  Ay,  so  are  all  women  before  marriage  ;  and  that's 
the  reason  their  husbands  so  soon  wish  them  in  heaven  after- 
wards. 

Duke,     Those  who  are  tartly  tongued  ;  but  our  examj)Ie 
Tliis  truth  shall  manifest — A  gentle  wife 
Is  still  the  sterling  comfort  of  man's  life  ; 
To  fools  a  torment,  but  a  lasting  boon 
1  o  those  who  wisely  keep  their  Honey-Moon 

THE    END. 


so  ^^ 


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